Remnants of Darkness
by Eldrice
Summary: Tis the Christmas season, and the Davies family have a strange visitor. When the world starts to slide into darkness, can Will Stanton and Peter and Annie Davies set things aright? WIP.
1. Prologue: A New Beginning

Long time reader, first-time writer. Hope everyone enjoys! It's a work in progress, but once finals are over and I crawl out from my dark burrow into the sunlight once again, updates should be pretty frequent. Meanwhile, please read and review! And while I don't think I'm going to spoil anything by saying that there's going to be a happy ending, be prepared for some cynicism and skepticism concerning the goodness of human nature along the way.

_Standard_ _disclaimers_ _apply_. Will Stanton, Bran Davies, Jane Drew, and _The Dark Is Rising_ series are the sole creations of the wonderful Susan Cooper. I am merely borrowing her ideas in order to break up the dreary monotony of countless hours of studying.

Remnants of Darkness

By: Eldrice

**Prologue** **I**

_The mosquito knows full well, small as he is_

_He's a beast of prey._

_But after all_

_He only takes his bellyfull,_

_He doesn't put my blood in the bank._

D.H. Lawrence, "The Mosquito Knows"

Even in those early days, when he and Brynne had roamed the empty mountainsides alone together, Peter Davies had suspected that there was something strange about himself. Something weird. Uncanny. Freaky, one might almost say.

And some did whisper it, like the other children at school and the old Tywyn villagers, whose wrinkled eyes followed him when he walked past. To them, he was _that boy: _the son of the even creepier Bran Davies, the mysterious orphan child Owen Davies had taken in and raised as his own, and whose vagabond mother everyone knew to have been no good.

Peter wondered about it all as he tramped over heather and bracken on long walks up Cader Idris. He would lay himself upon a large rock, warmed by the summer sun, and stare up at the impossibly blue sky while Brynne capered after butterflies and rabbits. He would wonder about it on rainy days shrouded in fog, as his mother wrapped him in a parka and opened her mouth as if she wished to forbid his leaving the old farmhouse. But his father always intervened when his mother expressed her reservations, reminding her cheerfully that childhood adventures wouldn't wait for rain to end. And so a damp Peter would trudge over fences and through the fields, thinking thinking thinking, trying to discover what it was, exactly, that made him so . . . peculiar.

He wasn't, however, a lonely boy. The neighboring Evans children (particularly the twins Davey and Gwennie, who were his own year at school) were his friends, and they passed many long summer days and cold winter nights laughing together. And summertime always brought a few of his numerous Stanton cousins. They weren't really his cousins, but the nieces and nephews of his Uncle Will, who wasn't really his uncle, but rather his father's best friend. Will's extended summer visits to the Davies family were an ancient tradition, and he always dragged two or three madcap Stanton rascals along with him. The privilege, he would say with a grin, of an eccentric bachelor uncle. The Stantons were all stout, good-natured children who accepted Peter and his . . . vagueness . . . without question. He was fond of them, and they of him.

And then Annie had been born when Peter was seven, and he had been immediately enchanted by the tiny, blue-eyed, black-haired sister who screamed so magnificently from her cradle and who grew to love her older brother so completely.

No, it was a good life, full of love and comfort and adventure. And if every now and then there were nudges and whispers when he walked by, or if conversation died suddenly upon his approach, he could push the occurrence to the back of his mind, where he alone was aware of it.

But sometimes, when walking alone in the hills, his wondering hand would reach up to brush his raven black hair, which contrasted so strangely with his father's white hair and skin, that had always been white, empty, without color from the day he was born. And sometimes, long after midnight had come and gone, he would turn on the bedside lamp and stare at himself in the small, cracked mirror, studying the way the light played on his golden, feather-fringed eyes.

But that Welsh life had lasted only until the year that he was eleven and Annie was four. By that time it was clear that the farm was dying. Every year his father had looked grimmer and grimmer come tax season, and every year their clothing had become a little more worn and stretched at the knees and elbows. The world was changing, John Rowlands had told him once, and Peter mustn't blame his father, who was the best damn sheep farmer in the country. They had been sitting on a stone wall together, sucking on grass blades, and the Evans' ancient farmhand had leaned over and spat on the ground.

"That, Peter," he had said, "is how I feel about corporations and tourists and this whole rotten economic system we've got nowadays, where a man can't earn a decent living by working with his own two hands. It's a shame, it's a bloody shame."

So the farm had been sold to the Evanses, who were still managing to hold out against the tourist industry, and could likely do so for many more years to come. His mother had then been offered a position at an American newspaper, where her reputation as a free-lance columnist had spread from her work published in the _London Times_. With the farm gone, the uncertainty of free-lance was dangerous, and there had been many late night discussions and heated debates between his father and his mother. But jobs were scarce in Britain, and they needed the extra money the American newspaper was offering.

There had been one last, wild, Welsh summer filled with running and laughter and Stantons and Brynne. That fall the Davies family packed their belongings and made the solitary journey across the Atlantic to the States. They left behind a mournful Brynne in the care of John Rowlands. Peter knew that she would be far happier roaming the hills with the elderly farmhand than imprisoned by a backyard fence. Still, he couldn't keep the tears from his eyes as he buried his face in her soft ruff to say farewell.

They found themselves in a small, two-story, white Victorian house with gables and green trim in a town called Wraithfell, OH. There was a town square lined with expensive specialty shops and an ice cream parlor and a park next to a river that led to the small thundering waterfall. The summers were warm and humid; the winters windy, snowy, and bitterly cold. Their street was lined with other two-story gingerbread houses, each with their own small, well-manicured yard. There was a fenced-in backyard with a tool shed and a tire swing. Peter studied it all with curious eyes, and tried to imagine the windblown wild heaths of his childhood in its place.

They fell swiftly into the established routine of their new lives. Three times a week his mother woke early and hopped into the beige sedan for the drive into work. Peter would stumble bleary-eyed into the kitchen to find her frantically stuffing a brown satchel with the day's notes, one hand sloppily pulling hair back while the other grabbed him into a swift, one-armed hug before she dropped a kiss upon his head.

The other two days she stayed at home, writing at her computer screen in jeans and a faded t-shirt, taking swigs from a water bottle perched at her right hand. Despite her growing reputation for journalism, she was forging time out of her busy schedule to work on several independent editorials, as well as a children's story that she had permitted no one to read. She refused to answer any questions about it, even when Annie locked her arms around her neck and refused to let go, hanging and begging, "Please please please pretty pretty please, Mummy? Won't you? Please please please?" Jane Davies would laugh and snag Annie around the waist, lifting her upside down in the air, waltzing her giggling and screeching daughter about the room. "Never!" she would cry grandly. "You'll never know, and I shall take it to my grave!" Annie would be plunked back down breathless on the carpet, grinning and pushing hair out of her eyes, yet pretending to pout petulantly at yet another refusal.

But Peter's mother wasn't the only one finding success in their new home.

Bran Davies and Will Stanton had been boyhood friends, and their adolescent summers had been spent alternatingly at one or the other's home. When in Buckinghamshire, Bran had discovered that he possessed the knack of Mr. Stanton's jewelry business. He had been fascinated, and took to hanging around the shop during business hours when Will was busy running errands elsewhere. Flattered by his interest, which none of his own sons seemed to display, Mr. Stanton had taken the young Bran Davies under his wing. He taught the boy how to set stones and twist silver, and the varying degrees of strength of iron and steel. By the time Bran was eighteen, he was some unique combination of jeweler-blacksmith-metallurgist, and about as competent in the area as any other man in the country. When he had then taken Jane Drews' left hand to ask her the loving question, it had been a ring of his own making that he softly slipped upon her finger.

So the money they had gotten for the farm went to establishing a quaint little shop in downtown Wraithfell, lined with glass cases that housed sparkling metals and stones on sumptuous squares of red velvet. Will Stanton, in his usual cryptic fashion, called the little store _Silver on the Tree _in a letter, and that was the name they fixed over the door in twisted, wrought-iron letters. There was a tiny back room that customers could enter, where Bran Davies sat with his flaming-white hair bent over a small forge as he twisted silver and gold into necklaces, bracelets, belts, and armbands, a serene expression of concentration on his strange, quiet features. Enough of these people walked away with small, tissue-wrapped packages that the venture became, to everyone's relieved surprise, a modest success. Word began to spread that while all jewelry sold at _Silver on the Tree_ was of the highest quality, there was something . . . special . . . about the pieces made by the mysterious owner, the man without any color in him and the golden eyes. It wasn't that they were lucky, exactly, the word went, but that they were . . . _warm_. Some said that the pieces brought strange dreams if worn on the skin at night. A few narrow souls insisted quietly behind closed doors that they were the work of the devil.

But what with one thing and another, more and more people came to watch the newcomer work with a sort of superstitious awe that sat strangely in prosaic American eyes. And so Bran Davies found himself besieged by orders for countless items, ranging from wedding rings to graduation gifts to baby name tags. There was a waiting list a year long. He refused to design anything exactly the same twice, no matter how much the mayor's wife wanted a necklace _just like_ the darling one Mrs. Shields had.

So between his mother's budding literary career and his father's success as a jeweler, Peter Davies knew that they were safe and settled as far as money was concerned, and for this he was grateful. He was a practical boy, and he knew that being poor wasn't comfortable and that he should resign himself to living in this strange land. But still, more often than not on winter nights, he dreamt of wild mountains and Brynne and running in the Welsh sunshine. He would wake with an aching heart and the smell of heather in his nostrils, and would roll over to bury his head in his pillow until the tight feeling of tears around his eyes went away.

There were no more long solitary walks, no interesting conversations with John Rowlands, no magical adventures with the Evanses. Not able to lose himself in hills anymore, he began to lose himself in books instead. Or he would spend afternoons working through puzzles in a book of math games, letting the complexity of numbers and symbols wash away the day's tangles and snarls.

For his school days were hard. In Tywyn Davey and Gwennie Evans had always been by his side, ready to burn away any sniggering with their twin, haughty glares. Since their family's farm was the largest in the valley, they were powerful allies. But they had been even better friends; and Peter, alone in a strange land, missed them sorely. While his strange coloring had intimidated most people in Tywyn, it exposed him to ridicule in Wraithfell. But even the teasing, he had thought to himself once, wouldn't be so bad if there was just one friend to share it with, who would laugh with him over the latest attempt to ruffle his spirits or instigate a verbal explosion.

But there was no one. Peter, having too much pride to admit his loneliness, slowly grew accustomed to moving through the world on his own. And if his answers were elusively vague when his mother carefully asked if there wasn't some friend he would like to invite over to dinner sometime, he could pretend to himself that – on the outside at least – there was no reason why anyone should pity Peter Davies.


	2. First Encounters

Chapter One 

Physical education is what you learn from having your face in someone's  
armpit right before lunch. Bill Watterson, Calvin and Hobbes 

Three years had passed since they moved into the two-story Victorian house with gables and green trim, and Peter Davies had had a long day. He slammed his locker door shut and rested his aching forehead against the refreshingly cool metal.

He had aced another algebra test that morning, and the teacher had written his name on the chalkboard in bold, proud letters. Peter had felt a momentarily warm glow, but then the vague sneers and giggles had sprung up again. A strong kick to his desk had jolted him out of his deliberate pose of indifferent nonchalance. He had jumped, startled, and Ms. Gregory had looked at him with concern.

"Are you all right, Peter?"

"Yes, ma'am."

More titters. He had raised his head defiantly and stared straight ahead for the rest of the class.

But the hallway time between classes had been bad. Gary Hurth had violently jostled him just outside the geography classroom, sending both Peter and his armful of books sprawling to the tiled floor. "Oh, sorry there, chap, didn't see you," Gary had drawled in a voice that sounded like a dying elephant trying to mimic a British accent while Peter scrambled to retrieve his books. The lazy-eyed girls cluttering the doorway had giggled as Gary minced past them with exaggerated haughtiness, and the crouching Peter had sent his best glare after him. It didn't even matter that he had lost nearly all of his foreign accent, that he spoke almost just like them now.

Lunch had been just as awful, as he hunkered alone over his solitary brown bag lunch. Students approached him with sickening mixtures of macaroni, hamburger, milk, and ruined pizza remains on their trays. Smirking, they asked him if he wanted any, leaving their trays in front of the empty seat next to him even when he politely and dismissively said, "No thanks."

Perhaps the trays wouldn't have been left if he had been rude and crude in return.

Still, the plates piled up, huge mountains of quivering meat and mush, the uneasy smell of warm milk assaulting his nostrils. When he had stood up to leave the cafeteria, he had had to pass the Table, and everyone had heard Jim Howles' loud voice cry out, "Look everyone! There goes Peter Davies, the math whiz with the pretty eyes! Three cheers for good ol' Petey!"

But at least the day was over, Peter Davies thought as he escaped the brick building into the dazzling winter sunlight. Christmas vacation was starting. His eighth grade year was one day closer to completion. And then what? he asked himself. High school? Well, that will be a blast. Why be satisfied with having only kids my own age hate me, when it can be the whole bloody varsity football team?

He buried his gloved hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders against the bitter wind. He was walking down the snow-covered sidewalk to the elementary school where Annie waited for him everyday. Crystalline tree branches glittered in the air, and he shook his head to dispel the water drops that fell into his dark hair. The crisp scent of snow penetrated his brain, dispelling his moodiness. He took a deep breath, listening with satisfaction as the biting air rushed in and out of his lungs, flinging his head up to breathe deeper.

And a flash of red caught the corner of his eye.

He glanced discretely behind him and saw Gary Hurth and Jim Howles about fifty meters behind him, sauntering along in ski-jackets and sunglasses. His breath caught, and he hoped that there was some reason other than himself that they were walking this way.

"Peter Peter Peter! Merry Christmas, Peter!"

He looked up and saw Annie running towards him, arms outstretched and braids flying behind her. "Oof!" he grunted as her small body crashed into his, his arms automatically closing around her waist and picking her up to spin her around while she laughed gleefully. "Peter, it's Christmas!"

"I know that, twerp," he said, trying to sound annoyed, but grinning at her contagious enthusiasm. He plunked her down on the sidewalk and looked around him.

He had walked the quarter mile to the elementary school in a daze, and was now surrounded by chattering boys and girls swarming out from the school doors. Several of the little creatures waved goodbye to his sister, and Peter watched Annie wistfully as she easily waved good-bye in return to several colorful blurs that streaked past them towards open minivan doors.

Having said her farewells, Annie turned back to him with one of her bold, wide smiles. He grinned back and held his hand out to her, feeling her small, gloved fingers twine trustingly in his own as they started the way home. It was a half-mile to the Davies' house, past the high school where Peter had come from and down the hill to the valley.

"Peter," Annie asked him solemnly once they had fallen into the crunching rhythm of walking, and Peter had been keeping a wary eye on the still- following Gary and Jim. "How was your day at school?"

Peter laughed at her sincere politeness, bringing his attention away from the two boys behind them to the little girl walking primly by his side. "It was great, sis. Got another A on a math exam."

"Ooohhh . . ." she breathed in happiness. "Mum and Da will like that."

"Sure, and it wasn't that hard, you know? How was your day?"

"It was awful!" she cried, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "That horrid Sammy asked me to his Christmas party. I have the invitation in my bag. No one else is going, you know, they all said no. Who would want to? He's so mean to all the girls, always teasing us and stealing our crayons. And he's always picking on poor Tommy."

"Doesn't sound like this Sammy's a cool kid. But have you tried being nice to him?"

"Peter!" Annie looked at him severely from her small white face. "You know I always try to make friends with everyone," she said reproachfully.

"Ah, yes." It was true. Annie did like everyone. And everyone adored Annie.

"But his parents told him he could have a party, so he's been asking everyone in the last few days and threatening them with the most horrible things if they don't come. I said I would, but it's going to be dreadful."

"The trials and tribulations of the second grade," Peter murmured, his attention drifting as she chattered on. He had just seen two large figures standing behind trees in front of them, lounging against the trunks casually. And Gary and Jim were still behind them. He wished Annie wasn't here.

"And then, Peter, Mildred said she bought me a Christmas present, but that she's waiting till I come over on New Year's to give it to me, and now I have to get her something and I haven't – "

"Hey, Petey!"

One of the dark figures had stepped out from the tree and was taking up an alarmingly large amount of side walk. It was Stan Winslow, another friend of Jim and Gary's. A large boy Peter didn't know was standing just behind and beside him, silent and smiling. A swift glance over his shoulder revealed that Jim and Gary were only a few steps behind him.

"Hey, Stan," Peter said, striving to sound friendly and cool. He pulled Annie's hand so that she fell back a step behind him.

"Awww, Petey," the unknown boy said, craning his neck. "Who's that with you? Your little girlfriend? Cute kid."

"Oh, shut up," Peter said in disgust.

"Hi, I'm Annie," his sister said brightly from behind his legs. "I'm not his girlfriend, just his sister. Who're you?"

Stan and the large boy looked at each other and started laughing. "Your sister's pretty cool, Petey," Stan gasped out. "Bet she'll be hot stuff in a few years. What d'ye say, sweetheart? How 'bout a date?"

Annie's eyebrows lowered and she looked up at Peter in puzzled confusion.

"Lay off it, guys," Peter tried to growl.

Jim and Gary were now beside them. "Hey there, Sir Peter!"

"Hi, Jim, Gary," Peter mumbled. "What's up?"

"Oh, not much, just working off a bit of winter frustrations, you know?"

"No, actually, I don't."

"Well, I'll tell you, Sir Peter," Gary draped his arm chummily on Peter's shoulder. "Life gets mighty dull once football season is over and the team ain't in the playoffs."

"Yeah, we don't have fancy things like math-e-mat-ics to keep us busy."

"We're more of the outdoors type, you know."

"Funny." It was hard to keep the sarcasm from his voice. He shrugged Gary's arm off in annoyance. "I always picture you as a couch and refrigerator type myself. Were any of you actually on the football team this year?"

"Shut up, Davies," Stan snapped. The four of them were standing in an arc before him now, and Peter's back was to the stone wall that surrounded the high school. No hope of sprinting past them. Annie was beside him, her small fingers tightening as she began to realize that no, contrary to all expectations, these people were not friends.

"Oh, Petey," Gary was gushing. "Look me in the eyes, just once, won't you Petey? You know I love you, man, you and your golden eyes. Pretty eyes, bird's eyes."

Peter blinked. His eyes. Everything was always coming back to his damn eyes! What was so wrong with them anyway? Sure, not everyone he knew had yellow eyes, but they were still just eyes; the same eyes his father had. Although thankfully he didn't have his father's brilliantly white hair and skin.

"Take your glasses off just once, won't you Petey?" Jim was crooning now. His large hand reached towards Peter's face.

Peter didn't think, and he was tired of pretense. His anger found its way unwillingly into his words. "Don't touch me," he hissed, tightening his grip on Annie's hand and moving back until his back pressed against the rough stone wall.

"Whoa there, man," Gary laughed as Jim staggered back in mock horror. "We aren't going to hurt you! We want to be your friends, Sir Peter. And your little lady's, too."

"Bloody hell, you do," Peter said quietly. He threw caution to the wind and opened his eyes wide, and stared at the four boys silently from behind his lenses. They wanted to see his eyes? Well, let them look at them, but they sure as hell weren't taking one step closer.

"The perfect little knight, aren't you, Sir Peter," Stan sneered, but with a thread of uncertainty undercutting the mockery.

"Stand back."

"Ooooo, we're scared. Being noble, isn't he, guys, protecting his dear little sister!"

"Shut up!" Annie cried furiously, her voice sending clouds of condensation into the crisp cold air. "Go away and leave us alone!"

"Aw, come on, sweetheart, don't be a sour puss like your big brother here. You're too pretty to be so boring."

Annie glared back. "My brother's much smarter than any of you could ever be! He's going to win the state math competition next month, just you wait and see!"

Peter groaned to himself.

"Is that so, Sir Peter? Going to win some silly little math game? How cute. And his little sister sticking up for him."

"Shut up, Gary. Let us pass, we just want to go home."

"Oh, I don't think you want to go home quite yet, Sir Peter," Gary hissed. "You see, we're tired of you, your freaky eyes, and your silly mathematics. We want a talk with you."

"Fine, just let my sister walk home."

"Sure, Petey, whatever you want."

The arc opened up and a space appeared leading out between Jim and Stan. Annie looked up at Peter with uncertain eyes. "Go on," he said, striving for nonchalance. "Go home. I'll be there soon."

"You sure, Peter?" she whispered.

"Yes, dammit, just get out of here!"

Annie jumped at the profanity, and gave him a swift, despairing look before darting forward on her white-stockinged legs. She was almost beyond Jim's grasp when the older boy reached out and grabbed her hood, yanking her back so she screeched in surprise and clawed at the hand restraining her. At the same time Stan took a large step towards Peter, his fist raised and cocked, and landed a right-handed uppercut on his cheekbone. The shock sent Peter staggering back against the wall, where his injured cheek received another bruising blow from the cold sharp bricks. But there was Annie, still struggling against Jim's hand restraining her. Peter shook his head and stepped away from the wall. He gathered himself and swung a fist back with a shout of fury, ready to fight.

And then, out of nowhere, a suit-clad arm reached out and grabbed Stan's shoulder, yanking the boy around and pushing him away from Peter. Another apparently disembodied arm grabbed Jim's collar, raising the boy and shaking him so that he let go of Annie's hood. The girl scrambled quickly away. Peter was shaking with anger, his fists still raised. Fury clouded his vision and he couldn't see clearly. But he saw a tall figure gently pick up Annie and stand her up against the wall behind Peter, and then step forward so that he was between Peter and his antagonists.

Stan was sprawled on the ground, rubbing his ass and looking as if he were fighting tears. Jim was also on the ground, whimpering and staring at the man before him with shock and dismay. Gary and the unknown boy were slowly edging away down the street, staring at the man who had come between them and their prey.

Peter was calming down now, the fury and fright melting away, leaving him shaking and empty. But he, too, now looked towards this strange, silent figure.

Except that it wasn't a strange figure. At least not to him.

"Will!" he gasped, relieved, amazed, and ashamed all at once.

And Will Stanton, his father's best friend whom they hadn't seen in the three years since moving to America, stuffed his hands in his suit jacket and turned towards Peter with a grin.

"Hullo, Peter," Will Stanton said cheerfully, as if they had just seen each other yesterday.

"Hey, man," Stan was stammering from the ground. "What's up with you? We were just playing around."

"Were you?" Will asked softly with his precise, academic accent as he turned back towards the fallen boy. The open friendliness he had greeted Peter with had melted into something infinitely more subtle and dangerous. "Please, forgive me."

"You can't just go around pushing people, my dad's a lawyer. That's battery! He'll be talking to you!"

"Really? It wouldn't be the first time. Odd how situations seem to repeat themselves. My brother Stephen would love to meet you and your father."

Stan looked confused.

"I don't think I have to tell you boys never to bother Peter or Annie again." Will's voice was cold, with none of the friendly politeness that Peter remembered so well. "For your own good."

Peter could see Stan struggling with himself before muttering, "No, sir. Of course not." Jim glanced at his friend, "No, sir. It won't happen again."

"Very well. Then get out of here."

The two boys picked themselves up and ran. Gary and the unknown boy were already well away. But Jim stopped about fifty yards away and yelled back: "YOU'RE A FREAK, DAVIES! JUST LIKE YOUR FREAKY FATHER!" And then he was gone.

Peter waited until they were out of sight before turning to Will with an expression wavering between humility, pleasure, and shyness on his face. He was startled when he saw the older man's countenance; it held a harsh, disturbing solemnity, and Will's mouth was grim as he stared at the spot where Jim had been standing.

But then he turned towards Peter and Annie, and the harshness transformed swiftly into an easy smile. He looked exactly as Peter remembered him: stocky and solid, with a serene British face and one solitary strand of brown hair that flopped across his eyes that he kept reaching up to brush away. He was wearing a brown, academic tweed suit, suitable for his profession as a literature teacher. Overall, he appeared safe, comforting, and – under the circumstances at least – utterly terrifying.

"Well, Peter and Annie Davies. It's good to see you again," he said lightly

Peter flushed. "I'm sorry, Will," he stammered. "Really, I am. But . . . but, please don't tell Mum and Da about what happened. Nothing was going on, honest. I . . . I think they were just joking, just having fun. I shouldn't have let them get to me . . . But what are you doing here?"

Will deliberately ignored Peter's question. "What makes you think I was worried about your safety, Peter?"

"Well, sir, I mean . . . you sent them running, sir. Running faster than I've ever seen them run before."

"Ah, yes." Will Stanton frowned. "But, I think, Peter, that if those boys had pushed you much further, they would have found themselves facing more than they expected." A slightly foolish smile replaced the frown. "It wouldn't have done for you to have been faced with four angry sets of parents threatening lawsuits for bruised heads now, would it?"

"No, sir, I guess not," Peter said, a little dazed.

Annie had so far been silent, standing at Peter's side looking at Will with a puzzled look in her eyes. She spoke now.

"Excuse me, sir," she said. "But who are you? How do you know Peter and I?"

Peter was startled. "Don't you remember Will, Annie? He's Da's best friend. Mum and Da talk about him all the time. We stayed with him when you were four years old in the Lake District. Right, sir?"

"Right, Peter. You two were marvelous company. Although you, my little lady," Will bent down so he was looking Annie straight in the eye, "were a little too fond of running away on the fells. I remember one time I couldn't find you for a whole morning, and I nearly tore my hair out thinking about how Jane would terrorize me for losing her precious girl. As I recall, you said you had followed a sheep who was a new friend of yours."

Annie grinned back. "I'm sorry, sir."

"Of course, m'dear. But please, both of you, stop calling me 'sir.' You did quite well at first, Peter. 'Will' should be good enough."

"Yes . . . Will," said Peter, biting back the forbidden word at the last minute. There was something in Will's manner, though friendly enough, that seemed to demand extra respect.

"Well now," Will straightened back up and went to pick up a suitcase that Peter noticed for the first time was lying abandoned several yards down the road. "How far is your house from here? You're parents aren't expecting me, but I've had a long journey and I doubt they'll deny rest to a weary wanderer such as myself."

"Not far," Annie volunteered. "Just a ten minute walk."

"Then let's start walking." Will held his hand out to Annie, who clutched it without hesitation. With a pleased look, Will Stanton swooped down and lifted her easily into his arms.

"Peter, come on," he ordered, holding his free hand out for Peter to take.

Peter shoved his own hands in his pocket and glared at the older man without saying anything.

"Ah. Hmm. Yes," Will murmured, abashed, with a sidelong glance at the boy. "Well, come along then." He shifted Annie into a better position and strode off along the street, Peter marching resolutely at his back. 


	3. Reunion

**REMNANTS OF DARKNESS, by Eldrice**

**_Standard Disclaimers Apply_**: Will Stanton, Bran Davies, Jane Drew and the entire Dark is Rising universe belong solely to the lovely Susan Cooper.

**Chapter Two: Reunion.**

"_No, I don't mean love, when I say patriotism. I mean fear. The fear of the other. And its expressions are political, not poetical: hate, rivalry, aggression. It grows in us, that fear. It grows in us year by year. We've followed that road too far."  
_

_- Ursula le Guin, The Left Hand of Darkness _

Jane Davies was just beginning to fret about her two overdue children when she saw a man in a suit and overcoat striding up the street cradling Annie in his arms. Peter trudged along behind them, hands stuffed in his coat pockets and head hanging. She let out a cry of delight and rushed outside, heedless of the cold.

"Will!" she cried as she skittered down the Davies' icy driveway, moving as fast as she could while maintaining her balance, laughing merrily. "Will, oh Will!"

Will plunked Annie down on the ground and opened his arms. Peter watched with curiosity as his brilliant mother threw herself impulsively into them with a laugh of girlish delight. Will spun her around, once, twice, before landing her back on her feet.

"Hello, Jane Drew," he said with a stupidly pleased smile, but calm, as if for three years there had been no ocean and almost half of a great continent separating Will Stanton from the Davies family.

"Jane Davies, Will. You were the best man at the wedding, you know."

"Grant me some sentimental reminiscing, Jane-girl."

"Ha! As if Will Stanton could ever be sentimental about anything! You can't fool me, Will. You're cold as stone." Peter's mother smiled to show she was teasing.

Will smiled. "I ran into two little people walking home from school who said they belonged to you. They were kind enough to let me accompany them. Peter looks just like you, by the way. Except for the eyes, of course."

"I know," Jane said, letting her eyes wander so she could gaze fondly on her son, who was standing respectfully behind Will Stanton. "Well, let's go inside. Bran's not due back for awhile, Will, but that gives you some time to think of an explanations for his sudden appearance after three years of being incommunicado."

The four of them entered the house. Ducking his head and mumbling a vague excuse, Peter sprinted up the stairs. He entered his bedroom, dropped his backpack on the floor, and flung himself on the bed. He was glad to see Will, of course, but he wished they had met again under different circumstances. Say what you mean, he thought bitterly. You wish you hadn't come across as such a bloody coward who needed rescuing. He lay there for some time, shyness preventing his return downstairs.

Meanwhile, Jane prepared a hasty dinner and Will surrendered himself to Annie, who pulled him by the hand and gave him a grand tour of the Davies household. She was quickly falling into adoration with this strange man whom she had heard so much about, yet could hardly remember. Will knew all the right questions to ask, and she cheerfully introduced him to her stuffed animals and stood on the ground outside calling instructions as Will hesitantly climbed up to the treehouse Bran Davies had built when they first moved there.

When Peter finally tumbled downstairs, the early winter twilight was falling outside and a car's headlights shone in the driveway. The front door slammed and Peter's father stood in the foyer, speechless and shocked as he stared at a silent Will Stanton smiling before him.

"_Duw_," he breathed finally, the Welsh expression coming heedlessly to his lips as it always did when he was surprised. "Will . . ."

"Hello, Bran."

No one else ever said his father's name the way Will did, drawing out the long, Welsh vowel in a way that Peter had learned at a young age most English were too uninterested to attempt. Even his mother sometimes didn't do it quite correctly if she was distracted or frustrated. But when Will said "Bran," Peter felt a shiver down his spine, as if the word floated in the room long after the sound of it had vanished, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Bran Davies took two quick steps forward and embraced Will Stanton as a brother. The two men stood silent for several seconds before they both stepped away from each other looking vaguely foolish, but rather pleased. Peter thought Will looked somewhat anxious, but it may have been his imagination. Jane rolled her eyes and muttered something sarcastic about "men" and "fear of affection" while she took Peter and Annie and hustled them into the eating room off the kitchen where a hastily prepared dinner of pasta and vegetables, thrown together in between pages of manuscript, awaited steaming.

"Good god, Will, what are you doing here?"

"It's nice to see you too, Bran."

"Oh, shut up, man, come on! You know I couldn't be more thrilled to see anyone. But we haven't seen you for three years and all of a sudden you show up on our doorstep? In Ohio?"

"If you must know, I was invited to lecture at Heidleberg College next semester on Celtic runes. Plus, you know my Uncle Bill lives nearby."

"Yes, I bought some excellent pottery from him for the shop last month. Sold faster than I could put it on display. Well, I guess that's excuse enough. We're just a side-trip. Thanks a lot. But it still doesn't explain why you're here three weeks before the start of next term. Or why you didn't call us first."

"The lecture invitation was somewhat last minute. I was only a second choice. The first apparently had a sudden attack of pneumonia. But this was the cheapest flight I could find during the holiday season. God bless the internet and direct flights Gatwick and Cleveland. Or you can call my sudden appearance mere eccentricity if you will."

"I shall, if that's what you wish. You've always been a strange one, Will Stanton."

The two men trooped into the kitchen with their arms around each other's shoulders. Peter, used to seeing his father stiffly formal around everyone but his mother, was surprised to see the relaxed joy that shone in Bran Davies' face. And Will was grinning from ear to ear like a schoolboy who had just won his first race.

Reunions between long-lost relatives, in one author's immortal words, take time. The same adage applies to long-lost friends. Once everyone had eaten their fill of Jane's questionable pasta, there still remained hours of conversation that required Bran to prepare a haphazard dessert and coffee. Will asked after the Drews, and Jane told him about how Peter's uncles Barney and Simon had traveled together to Africa for a year. Simon was working for a medical NGO working on supplying AIDS treatment; and Barney was photographing living conditions for various political and cultural magazines, as well as painting abstract landscapes for an upcoming New York art show. Will then asked how they were liking America, and Jane frowned.

"There are some bad things about the States," she said bluntly. "The violence, for one. Not real violence, of course, but just the way its everywhere: on television, in the news." She shook her head. "And then there's the fear. Everyone is afraid here, so that you too start becoming paranoid."

"Afraid of what?" Will asked, surprised.

Jane threw up her hands. "That's just it, I don't know what. Although, I guess 'fear' isn't exactly the right word; they do have a right to be fearful here. Many people have died recently. Rather, it's the . . . the aggresiveness in the face of that fear that's disturbing. The blind antagonism. The willingness to commit evil to prevent it." She tapped her writer's fingers impatiently against the tableclothe. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that these are dark times, Will. The whole country is threatened by an invisible enemy. It's as if there were a mouse in a china shop. You must kill the mouse, of course. But America is smashing all the china in the attempt."

There was a sad, uneasy pause, and then it was Bran's turn to talk about business and his latest fascination with swords and knives, several of which he had forged experimentally. They were selling well, he said, but he wanted to come up with some new aesthetic hilt designs. Will was fascinated and made several design suggestions, sketching them out on a napkin while Bran nodded his white head in approval. Will then talked about his academic research into the way 14th century pagans had disguised their writings as Christian tracts, and how the widespread Stanton clan was dealing with the recent death of his father. His mother was still living in the old house, and his sister Mary had moved in with her family to keep her company. Mary's husband was debating whether they should sell the jewelry shop or take over its management himself. Will looked directly at Bran as he said this; it was no secret that he didn't approve of his sister's prejudiced, harsh, and temperamental husband.

"Ah, hmm," was the only response Bran gave.

Annie was the first to fade as the night wore on. Jane caught her chin slipping dangerously from a propped-up fist, and ordered her to upstairs to bed. Yawning, Annie complied and staggered out of the room.

Will's eyes followed her as she left, and he murmured softly, almost to himself: "She looks just like what I imagine her grandmother to have been."

Jane had given him a strange look. "My mother never looked like that," she said bluntly.

Will snapped out of his reverie and grinned at her. "Oh. I merely meant that she looked what I imagined Bran's mother to look like. With the black hair, white skin and blue eyes, she's a classic Welsh beauty." He shot a sheepish glance at his friend. Bran shrugged casually in response. It never upset him if others speculated about his mother, but it never enthused him either. Will himself had never mentioned her before.

"Perhaps," Bran said nonchalantly. A lightning grin then suddenly crossed his face. "But she does have Jane's cute little ears." He reached over to tug playfully at one of his wife's lobes, eliciting a sharp "Ow!" and a loving punch on the shoulder. Peter saw Will watch the still flirtatious conjugal exchange with an odd look of thoughtful curiosity. The older man then noticed Peter's eyes on him, and the wistful look was immediately replaced by open, and therefore impenetrable, cheerfulness.

Soon Peter's eyelids were drooping, and massive yawns cracked his jaw. The words flying around the table began to blend into an incomprehensible river of sound. He glanced at the large, grandfather clock, and was surprised to see that the hour hand was well past the midnight mark. Standing up, he muttered a vague "goodnight." The adults interrupted their conversation to look in his direction and smile goodnight. Peter dropped a swift kiss on his mother's head, clapped his father on the shoulder, and reached an uncertain hand out towards Will. An amused Will shot a surprised glance at Jane and Bran as he took the solemn boy's palm in his own. Peter then tumbled upstairs and into bed, burying his head in his pillow to shut out the cheerful conversation that was still going strong among the reunited friends downstairs.


	4. A Midnight Interlude

**REMNANTS OF DARKNESS, by Eldrice**

**Standard Disclaimers Apply**: Will Stanton, Bran Davies, Jane Drew, and the entire Dark is Rising universe belong solely to the lovely and talented Susan Cooper.

**A/N**: I'm sorry this chapter doesn't have much of a plot, but I just wanted to take some time to address an issue I have with some TDIR fanfics. (And no, this is not an anti-slash diatribe. There's lots of slash I like, particularly of the Sirius/Lupin variety.) But why is everyone always so intent on making Will part of a couple? He's immortal (perhaps not even properly human), which in my book should preclude any relationship with everyday people. (See my other story, "An Immortal Encounter," for the problems and overly sentimental angst that may result.) If I ever _were_ to have Will fall in love (rubs hands together gleefully), it would have to be with another Old One, or someone who is something similar . . .

ButI always thought the sparks were flying between Jane and Bran in _Silver on the Tree_. First of all, they really disliked each other at first, and we all know where that sort of thing leads to (see _Pride and Prejudice_, _Much Ado about Nothing_, Ron and Hermione, etc etc etc). Second, I always thought Will seemed truly surprised anddense when Bran asked him if he thought Jane was pretty. Why should Will ever think of such a thing? It's completely irrelevant to saving the world. I think Bran was sounding him out with that question, making sure he wasn't moving in on his friend's territory. Third, Bran saved Jane from the afanc. Fourth, he gave her the stone, and called her 'Jenny' when he did so. 'Jenny' was used as a nickname for Guinevere in _The Once and Future King_. I like to think that Susan Cooper didn't mean that as a coincidence. Anyway, to make a long story short, that's where I get my basis for the relationships in this story, and this chapter is pretty much just a short rant on the subject. Enjoy, and I promise that the real plot will pick up in the next chapter!

Sorry. I won't have such a long A/N again, I promise.

**Chapter Three: A Midnight Interlude**.

_"You are thinking of your sons – but do not you know that of all things upon earth that is the least likely to happen, brought up, as they would be, always together like brothers and sisters? It is morally impossible. I never knew an instance of it. It is, in fact, the only sure way of providing against the connection. Suppose her a pretty girl, and seen by Tom or Edmund for the first time seven years hence, and I dare say there would be mischief. . . . But breed her up with them from this time, and suppose her even to have the beauty of an angel, and she will never be more to either than a sister."_

_- Jane Austen, Mansfield Park._

Peter was a light sleeper. It must've been several hours past midnight when a creaking noise jolted him from slumber. His eyes snapped opened. The room was pitch dark, except for a sliver of light that stretched across the floor and opposite wall. His door was cracked open, and two heads were peering into his room and whispering in hushed voices.

"You see, snug as a bug in a rug."

That was his father. Peter grinned to himself but still feigned sleep. The cutesy expression was a guilty favorite of his mother's. Bran had laughed at it for several years until finally capitulating and embracing it in his own vocabulary.

"Hey, Jane, did you get Will the extra blankets? It's a cold night."

"Not yet. They're in the closet down the hall."

"Why don't I get them for him while you check in on Annie?"

"Deal."

Peter heard his father's footsteps travel down the hall, pause while he rummaged through the closet, and fade away as he walked carefully down the stairs to the guest room on the first floor.

His ears tracked his mother's movements as well. Her footsteps crossed the hall to Annie's door, and gently eased it open. The floorboards creaked as she made her way to her daughter's bed. Peter could imagine her bending over to gently press a kiss to her daughter's sleeping forehead.

"Mum . . . ? Is that you?"

Or perhaps not so sleeping. Annie's voice was muffled, and Peter could barely make out the words.

"Shhh, dearest. Just checking in on you. Go back to sleep."

"Don't go, I can't sleep. Will you read me a story?"

"No story, sleep time. It's after midnight."

"Please? I had a scary nightmare." Annie's voice was plaintively simple.

There was silence for a few seconds. "Maybe we can just sit and talk for awhile?" Affectionate concern that was barely concealed colored Jane's voice.

"Okay."

Well, if there was to be a midnight party, Peter wasn't about to be left out. He swung his legs over the bed and onto the floor. He made his way out into the dark hall and was just about to enter through the partially-opened door when his sister's next question stopped him dead in his tracks:

"Mum? Can you tell me why you married Da instead of Will? Could I marry Will?"

Peter could just see inside the room. Jane had switched on Annie's bedside lamp so that the room was transformed into a warm enclave of comforting light. Jane was perched on the bed, and Annie's elbow was propped on her mother's knee. She had her chin in one hand and was gazing up at her mother with a sly, droll smile twitching mischievously at the corners of her mouth.

Peter saw that his mother looked at her daughter in shock for several long seconds. Her cheeks flushed a deep crimson. Then she threw back her head and laughed uproariously, her hands clasped over her mouth as she tried to stifle her hilarity.

"Oy! What's so funny up there?" the muffled shout rose from downstairs.

A guilty, embarrassed look came over Jane's face, and she choked back a laugh. "Nothing, Will!" she managed to get out. "How are the blankets?"

"Warm enough, but I think they may be more useful as sound buffers . . ."

Jane rolled her eyes, but appeared sufficiently chastised. Annie, meanwhile, was looking peevish. "Mum! I'm serious!" she whispered fiercely.

"Oh, I know you are, sweetie, it's just . . . hold on, give me a second . . ." Jane struggled to control the wheezing laughter that was still threatening to overcome her and raised a hand to wipe at her streaming eyes. Peter leaned himself against the wall so that he could look in without being seen. He kept one ear listening intently. This was one conversation, deeply fascinating though it may be, that his presence was not likely to be conducive to. He supposed he should feel guilty for eavesdropping, but . . . damn, this might turn out to be good.

"Well," Jane Davies finally began in an overly solemn voice, having regained possession of her squandered dignity. "I guess the simplest answer is that I loved your father in a way that I could never love Will."

"Why?"

The mock seriousness on Jane's face shifted imperceptibly to real solemnity. She sighed thoughtfully and pulled her legs up beside her on the bed. "Move over, Annie," she ordered.

The girl scrambled to the other side of the bed eagerly.

Jane lifted the covers and settled in beside Annie with her back resting against the headboard. She reached out an arm and snagged her daughter, pulling her in close beside her.

"Annie." She paused, keeping her voice low and hushed. "Will is . . . he's not exactly . . . oh, how to explain it!" She looked at her daughter in helpless exasperation. "Will Stanton is Will Stanton. He could never be anything, anyone else. He's concerned with things that are grand, always has been. There's no room in his life for something as mundane and messy as romantic love."

"What grand things?"

"Oh, I don't know!" Jane gestured broadly. "Things!"

"He didn't love you? Was that it? Did he never kiss you?"

"Goodness! Where in the world are you getting these questions . . .? Oh, never mind, I don't think I want to know. The thing is, little Miss Snoop, that Will and I love each other as brother as sister, as comrades in arms." Peter could see a humorous glint enter his mother's eyes. "I shouldn't say this, he'll kill if he knew I said anything about it. But Will did kiss me once, at a school dance I invited him to."

She ostentatiously glanced around the room in a conspiring manner before pulling Annie closer. She cupped a hand around her daughter's ear and lowered her mouth to whisper the secret story. At one point Annie let out a squeal of glee and squirmed with laughter against her mother's restraining arm.

Peter was just about to lose his patience with the clandestine conference, when Jane leaned back and grinned at her daughter. Her voice was flippant and casually dismissive. "And that was that: a completely ludicrous and utter failure. We had a great time afterwards, but mostly because we went outside and Will gave me a very serious introductory astrology lesson. He was very big on astrology in those days."

Annie grinned in return. But the joking look in Jane's face faded as she gazed at her daughter. Peter could tell that something troubled her. Her next words came earnestly.

"But you see, Will and I aren't the same, as your father and I and you and Peter are the same. Will's . . . different. That's all. I can't explain it any better. I don't understand it myself." A thoughtful look came over her face. "In fact, I pity any woman who falls in love with Will Stanton. I don't think he would allow it."

Peter thought of the weird feeling he got whenever Will's blandly polite gaze fixed on him and felt that he had to agree.

Jane, meanwhile, was still studying her daughter. Annie was very sensitive . . . and she didn't want her to think . . . "That said, Annie, don't . . . don't get too attached to Will."

Annie looked confused. "What do you mean?"

The words came slowly, as if chosen with great deliberation. "I don't know what comes first in Will Stanton's life. It used to be your father, I think, when we were all children together. But I don't know anymore. I do know that it's nothing concerning you or me. And . . . and if we ever came into conflict with that which is first in Will Stanton's life, we would lose. You'll see. He'll be gone one morning, just like that, with a scrawled farewell note lying on the counter. Something in his world of ancient texts and symbols will call him away and he'll leave without warning. But I love Will, and I would trust him with anything except that which is most important."

"What's that?" Annie asked.

Jane smiled brilliantly and impulsively gathered her protesting, squirming daughter up in her arms and cuddled her close. She was growing up so fast, was so tall now . . .

"My happiness, Annie."

Peter had had enough. He inched away from the open door and made his way back to his room, shutting the door carefully behind him. Once more, he was enclosed in darkness. He felt his way to his bed and collapsed upon it. Drawing the covers close about him, he stared up at the ceiling thoughtfully.


	5. An Unexpected Visit

**REMNANTS OF DARKNESS, by Eldrice**

**_Reader Review Response_**:No, Bran and Jane don't remember anything. They probably won't either. But this is not to say that they won't be told some things, or figure them out on their own. . .

_**Standard Disclaimers Apply**_. Susan Cooper owns everything. I am merely left with the meager dregs of my own imagination . . .

**Chapter Four: An Unexpected Visit**

_"The penalty for laughing in a courtroom is six months in jail – if it weren't for this penalty, the jury would never hear the evidence."_

_- The late, great Bob Hope_

Despite the previous night's late hours, Peter woke early the next morning. There was a horrible feeling of nausea in his stomach; it was the churning that had jerked him so precipitately out of sleep. He groaned and clapped his arms across his belly, trying to settle the roaring with deep, calming breaths. After a few minutes the pain started to recede, and he relaxed from his cramped position and began to breathe normally. Shaking his head the clear the dizziness, he swung his feet over and placed them tentatively on the floor. He stood up slowly. One step. Two steps. And then his face turned green, and the world spun, and he sprinted to the bathroom in the hall, bent his head over the toilet, and vomited.

He was staring grimly at his pale face in the mirror, trying to remember something of the nightmares he had had the night before, when he heard a low moan drifting down the hall.

"Annie," he whispered.

When he entered his sister's room, her small body was tensed on her bed, her tiny hands grasping sheets that she had pulled up tightly to her chin. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and she didn't see him enter.

"Annie?" he asked, sitting gingerly on her bed. Another small whimper escaped her. "Are you ok?"

She opened blurry blue eyes and stared at him vaguely. "Oh Peter," she whispered. "I do feel awful."

"Are you nauseous?" He lifted a strand of hair gently from her forehead and frowned at her in concern.

A silent, feeble nod.

"I was too."

"What is it?"

"I don't know, but throwing up made me feel better."

Annie's already peaked face went zombie white.

"Don't worry," Peter said hurriedly. "It's probably just something we ate."

"I want Mummy, Peter."

So Peter got up and made his way gently downstairs, still careful of his own guts. The giant clock in the hall chimed eight o'clock. His mother was usually up by now and in the kitchen, listening to NPR and fixing herself some coffee. His dad would be seated at the table, sketching some new design on a scrap of paper or checking accounts and cursing in annoyance, nodding absently while his journalist wife exclaimed over the day's news.

"Da? Mum?" Peter called out.

But there was no one in the kitchen, although the neglected teakettle whistled shrilly on the stove.

Frowning, Peter walked over and turned down the flame. It was strange for his parents to be so careless. But as the whistling died down, another noise rose to take its place: the low, muted sound of voices coming from the front yard. That was odd. Who would stop by so early on a Saturday morning?

Despite the nausea that still roared at him from a distance, he was ravenously hungry and reached into a cupboard to snag a fruit bar. He ripped the foil open and tore off a bite, walking out of the kitchen towards the front yard in search of the voices. He was just about to round the hallway corner into the living room when a photograph on the wall caught his eye, and he stopped in mid-stride to look at it closer.

He had never really studied the picture before, although it was one of those things his parents proudly displayed to friends who asked to be shown through the house. It was just that it had always been there, something that need never be questioned or analyzed, because it simply existed the same way that one's stuffier great-aunt's existed: revered and ever-present, but hardly meriting enthusiasm. Bt now, after last night's overheard conversation, Peter felt a rising curiosity about stories the picture might have to tell.

Five children were standing with their arms around each other, smiling politely and self-consciously for the unseen photographer. They were on a seaside dock, with the Welsh sun glistening on the water behind them. Sailors and fishermen walked in the background, and sailboats bobbed in the water along the wharf.

Peter studied one of the faces smiling out at him from the frame. Jane Drew at thirteen had been a very pretty girl, with long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail and a wide, toothy grin. She was standing besides a tall boy in whose reserved features Peter could just make out his Uncle Simon. And there was no mistaking the white-blonde kid smiling enthusiastically in the front as anyone other than his Uncle Barney.

It was easy to tell who his father was. Even with the picture's faded color, the pure white hair shone like a beacon, and he knew well the proud grin that flashed from beneath a pair of black sunglasses. That must be Will beside him, almost out of the frame completely, his wary eyes staring at the camera with suspicion. He was stockier than Peter's father, who was slender and straight, and his defensive posture reminded Peter somewhat of a distrustful guard dog. But the gaze – polite, unwavering, analytical – was identical to that which he had leveled at Stan Winslow & Co. the previous day.

Peter suddenly remembered that the invisible photographer had been John Rowlands' wife, and that the picture had been taken just days before she died from a sudden stroke. John Rowlands had been wont to gaze at it wistfully, missing her. He had told Peter once that they were lucky to have it at all and were indebted to his – was it Branwen? Brenda? – for its very existence. Apparently, she had had to wheedle, beg, and coax a reluctant Will Stanton to appear in it at all. John Rowlands would chuckle over the memory, amused that Will Stanton, who could be described as a reserved boy, but never a shy one, had turned out to have such an irrational fear of cameras. But they had it now, and it was the sole existing commemoration of the only summer that Bran Davies, Will Stanton, and all the Drew children had been together at the same time.

A particularly loud shout from the front yard jolted Peter from his reverie. What was going on? It almost sounded like an argument, and that loud voice had surely been his father's. He swiftly gathered his jacket from the closet and ran to the front door, flinging it open and stepping out into the winter morning.

His jaw dropped.

A limousine was parked nonchalantly in front of their house, glistening in the sun like a giant black insect. One of its doors hung open and a briefcase lay abandoned in the snow. But then a loud voice cut through the winter morning and ripped Peter's eyes away from the incredible car parked in their modest little street.

"I'm giving you an OPTION here, Mr. Stanton, Mr. Davies. A chance for _settlement_. It's up to you whether you take it or not, but I would highly suggest you consider it."

Peter's eye swiftly appraised the group of four people standing at odds in the driveway. Three of them were his parents and Will, and the fourth was a stranger, a tall (but not thin), elderly man who was gesticulating furiously. It was he who had shouted. He had one palm spread out before him, and was jabbing at it with his finger in emphasis. Bran Davies was standing a little ways before the stranger, and Jane and Will were a step behind him, flanking him on either side. His father had one leg flung forward and his arms folded stubbornly across his chest. He was wearing his dark sunglasses and had his head tilted at a prideful angle, which Peter recognized as a bad sign.

Nevertheless, Bran Davies was listening patiently to the stranger's expostulations. It was only the mocking grin on his face that revealed derision and incredulity. Jane's features were a mixture of fretful worry and uncertain disbelief. Will Stanton merely looked as if he couldn't decide whether to be solemnly amused or blankly astonished. The stranger's face was interesting. Despite the loud and abrasive words, his face contained a look of sly brilliance, a cunning intelligence that said that this man, even when he appeared to lose control, maintained complete domination over every situation he found himself in.

Peter inched forward cautiously until he stood just behind his parents and Will. His mother saw him approach and made a swift, cutting movement with her hand ordering him to return inside. Peter ignored her and remained standing where he was.

"I don't CARE what your son says about his 'injuries.' I'm not paying you any damages!" Bran Davies' voice was impatient and curt. He turned to his friend standing behind him. "And don't think you are either, Will Stanton!" Will immediately shut his open mouth. His father faced the stranger again. "You can take me to court in hell before I agree to such nonsense!"

Damn, Peter thought. It's Mr. Winslow.

He felt his cheeks begin to burn self-consciously, especially when he saw Will's nonchalant gaze pass over him, an imperceptible nod the only recognition of his presence. Guilt plummeted into his stomach like an anvil.

"Um, excuse me?" he piped up cautiously, yet firmly.

The debate between his father and Mr. Winslow halted abruptly as both men turned in surprise to see who it was that had spoken. The stranger's eyes focused on Peter, and recognition dawned. He pointed a finger at him. "So it's YOU who caused all this trouble!"

"No, no sir!" Peter said hastily. "But I wanted to apologize anyway, I mean – "

"Do you know who I am, boy?"

"Um, you must be Stan's dad? Look, like I said, I'm sorry about what happened yesterday. It wasn't Will's fault, and – "

"I'm Dick C. Winslow. Senior partner at Gimme, Gimme, Gotcha, and Tuff."

"Well . . . ok," Peter said, blinking at the man. He was massive in the way that politicians are huge, prizefighter shoulders swathed in an expensive wool coat, a leather folder dwarfed by the ham-fisted hand that clenched it. He was older that Peter would have thought and partially balding; fine white hairs lay plastered against pudgy, gleaming, reddish skin. Glasses rode high on a hawkish nose, and one corner of the thin- lipped mouth was turned up in a perpetual smirk. His shoulders hunched forward aggressively. Peter scrunched his nose in distaste; the alcoholic stench of excess after-shave and cologne overwhelmed the crisp, pure smell of new-fallen snow.

"Peter, go back inside," his father said. "Right now. Jane, take him inside."

His mother opened her mouth as if to protest, but then she looked at her son's scared but resolute face, and she remembered the anger-that-was- not-anger sitting in Winslow's eyes. She closed her lips. "Peter, come on," she ordered grimly, and turned around back to the house and went through the front door, leaving it open behind her.

Peter gave one final glance at the three men in the driveway. They all stared at him in waiting expectation. He had no choice. Reluctantly, he turned around and slowly trudged back towards the house in his mother's footsteps.

And then they all heard Jane Davies scream.

No one moved. Bran Davies and Dick Winslow remained at a standoff, Will Stanton several feet behind his friend. Peter was halfway between the group and the open door his mother had vanished through. They all stood still as stone, no one believing they had just heard what they thought they had heard. And then the sobbing began, and Peter could hear it coming from inside. His mother's voice, crying out a grief such as he had never heard before.

Bran was the first one to come to life. "Jenny!" he shouted dreadfully. Oblivious of Winslow's existence, he took off flying up the driveway, his white hair waving in the sun like a banner. Peter remained rooted to the ground as his father sped by him, stunned, fearful, and incapable of movement. Bran catapulted himself up the steps and through the front door, vanishing into the shadows.

Winslow shook his head and seemed to come from a trance. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Get back out here, Davies!" he shouted, jutting his finger towards the ground. "I'm not through talking with you!" He took a giant step towards the house.

"Oh, but I think you are, sir."

Will had gracefully slid directly into Winslow's path. The suited man had been brought up short by the unexpected obstacle, and he glanced down in annoyance at the smaller person blocking his way. His eyes glimmered dangerously.

"You arrogant English prig," he hissed quietly. "You and your friend, thinking you're so much better than everyone else. Thinking you can humiliate my boy the way you did yesterday . . . I know what your kind is like, always preaching the sanctity of weakness. Well, I've seen what weakness can do, and I will not have my son terrorized into becoming a victim." He leaned forward aggressively and jutted his chin into Will Stanton's face.

Mr. Winslow was of Neanderthalic proportions, to be sure. And Will Stanton, solid and stocky though he was, was rather on the short side. Still, he didn't retreat one step from that glaring face so close to his own. He merely gazed, calm and unruffled, into the storming red fury directed down at him. There was even, perhaps, a hint of wistful affection in his glance, as if he were remembering something that had vanished long ago and was regretting its loss.

Peter blinked. And no, there was nothing, nothing . . . _threatening_ . . . in Will's manner. He was simply standing there quietly. It must be his imagination only that told him that Mr. Winslow was closer to mortal danger than he had ever been in his entire life.

But Will's voice was pleasant. "I've apologized, sir. There's nothing more you can want here."

"There must be consequences – "

"For stopping one boy from beating another? Have you seen Peter's face? I think I deserve your thanks, for teaching your son a lesson you've obviously thought too expensive to him give yourself."

Winslow's voice became a low, silky purr. "There must be justice under the law, Mr. Stanton. It is only right."

And now anger flashed from Will Stanton's eyes, sudden and electrifying. "The law! You break the law every day, and then you dare claim its protection?"

Winslow turned suddenly livid. "How _dare_ you accuse me – "

"What do you know of the law," Will spat, ignoring the man's words. The quiet intensity and fury of his voice halted Winslow's tirade. The balding man gazed in silent contempt at the compact Brit standing immovable before him.

"What do you know of the law?" Will repeated, quieter this time, but no less intense. "What do you know of the forces that bind men and women together, of the power that makes the leaves burst forth each spring? You sit in your office all day long, making money, telling yourself that you're doing the law's bidding. You devise ways to legally line the pockets of CEO's with unearned wealth that should be buying food for the children of the single mother who slaves away on the production line. Meanwhile, you haven't seen a sunrise in years except through the tinted windows of a limousine, and the air you breathe is sterile and dead. Your son amuses himself by tormenting others. And you think you know the law? Oh, how much there is that you've forgotten, Richard Winslow."

Winslow sneered. "If you can do nothing more than spout elementary liberalisms at me, Mr. Stanton, I would kindly request that you _get out of my way_."

Will Stanton closed his eyes. A single breath heaved in and out of his lungs. And then he opened his eyes, and they were perfectly clear and free from anger. Peter thought that they had never seemed so bright before, like the steely blue-grey of storm clouds in sunlight. Will stared at Winslow for several long seconds. Peter, watching Will's face, didn't see the way all emotion slowly drained from Winslow's red features, leaving them limp and rubbery like a deflated balloon. His mouth hung open slightly, and he gazed at Will with a bemused expression.

"Leave, Dickie," Will whispered sadly. "And don't go to work today. Try to enjoy yourself for once, try to remember what happiness was. Go hunting or something. I bet you'd like that. An eccentric literature professor from Britain isn't worth your valuable time, why even bother intimidating him? Leave, Richard Charles Winslow."

And without a word, Dick C. Winslow bent to retrieve his fallen briefcase and walked back to the waiting car. He stooped his massive shoulders and entered the back seat. Peter could just see through the tinted windows that he placed the briefcase neatly on his knees, gazed straight ahead, and mouthed a destination to the driver, who pulled majestically away from the curb and glided down the quiet, Saturday morning street.

Peter felt no triumph as he watched the man drive away. The world was quiet. Too quiet. This was all wrong. There was something wrong.

And his mother's sobs were coming from the house.

Will turned towards him. He looked exhausted.

"Will . . .?" Peter began tentatively, fearfully.

But Will was staring at the house, the direction from which the muffled sobs were coming. There was a sadness in his face that defied description: a sadness that spoke of long-cherished dreams broken in an instant, or victorious quests that had proven useless.

"Let's go inside, Peter," Will said. He walked towards him, clasped his shoulder, and began propelling him up the driveway. Peter struggled for a second, but Will's grip was iron and he couldn't shake free. He didn't want to face what was inside the house, whatever it was that had made his mother cry out in that way. The sobs were quieter now, dying down, but they still tore at his heart. But Will was adamant, and Peter closed his eyes as he was marched up the front steps, fearful of what waited within.


	6. A Tragedy of Means

**REMNANTS OF DARKNESS, by Eldrice**

**_Standard Disclaimers Apply_**: Wil Stanton, Bran Davies, Jane Drew, and the entire Dark is Rising universe belong solely to the lovely Susan Cooper.

**Chapter Five: A Tragedy of Means**

_Occurring this very night  
By no established rule,  
Some event may have already hurled  
Its first little No at the right  
Of the laws we accept to school  
Our post-diluvian world:_

_But the stars burn on overhead,  
Unconscious of final ends,  
As I walk home to bed,  
Asking what judgment waits  
My person, all my friends,  
And these United States._

_- W.H. Auden, "A Walk After Dark"_

They were inside. Will's hand released its grip on his shoulder. Peter opened his eyes. The room was dark, and it was several seconds before his pupils adjusted to the sudden dimness.

Jane Davies was sitting on the couch, her face buried in her hands, her husband's arm about her shoulders. Peter stared hard at her for several seconds, trying to find some evidence of whatever it was that had made her scream. But his mother bore no marks of physical injury. He let out his held breath in relief.

But then she lifted her face and looked at him, and all relief vanished.

Grief stared out at him from her pale face: tired, numb, disbelieving. Restrained tears glistened in her eyes, and she was fretfully gnawing the end of her ponytail. The tears, the hair, and the gesture all made her seem very much like the thirteen-year-old girl in the picture.

"Peter . . ." she murmured, and her voice trailed off as if she had forgotten that she was speaking in mid-sentence.

Then there was his father, sitting beside her with a look of absolute blankness on his face.

Some innocence in Peter died when he saw that emptiness. Until that moment he had not realized that he'd never seen his father frightened before. Not when they sold the farm; not when they moved to the States.

But Bran Davies was frightened now.

While the unknown grief made his mother look like a child, the fear brought lines of age and pain to his father's face, and Peter had a sudden vision of what his father would look like as an old, old man.

Annie appeared in the archway to the living room, pajama-clad and stretching. "What's going on?" she yawned. "Who was shouting? And I don't feel well."

The girl's voice broke the Peter's trance. He snapped his gaze from his parents and looked around himself as if he were emerging from a spell woven by his own fear and foreboding.

Everything seemed normal. Sunlight was streaming in through the air curtains, and the TV was spluttering in the corner. There were the usual magazines strewn across the coffee table, and Will was leaning silently against the bookcase that was overflowing with pictures, novels, and CDs. Peter's music competition medal was in its usual place of honor and the –

Television.

He hadn't noticed the electrical static when he first entered the room. His imagination had prepared him for the worst, for broken bones or a bloody body, and in his relief to see his mother safe, everything else had gone unnoted.

"Annie," Jane whispered as she stared at her sleepy daughter. "Annie . . ." and she pointed silently at the television.

It was turned to CNN, but that was nothing unusual. Part of his mother's job was knowing what was going on in the world. And there was nothing unusual either about the blonde Botox-beauty delivering the morning news. Except, perhaps, it was that her grave expression contrasted a little too strangely with the perfect makeup and colorful suit she wore.

And then the anchorwoman's face was replaced by an image Peter would remember forever and always after. It was a city, viewed from a camera stationed atop a distant hill. Or it had been a city, once upon a time, for now it was burning, burning burning burning, and the camera was not so far away that it could not pick up the faint echoes of people screaming, screaming screaming screaming . . . screaming as his mother had screamed.

Peter staggered. The nausea returned in waves of red and black, and he bent over in agony.

But if he could no longer see, he could now hear, and the anchorwoman's words finally registered on his ears. Words spoken in a voice that was careful and slow and tragic:

"Early reports are estimating that more than 250,000 people died in the initial attack upon Sindal. There have been no reports concerning Beniste as yet, but we know the city had a population of over 2 million. The President spoke this morning in the Rose Garden about his decision, explaining that retaliation was necessary once Yeria bombed Sindal. He described President Muscharch's actions as "the most brutal, evil, despicable act ever committed, one that deserved swift and immediate retribution – "

Peter looked up. The first face he saw was Will's. He was standing at the window, gazing outside with an elemental fierceness in his face. The sadness Peter had seen in the driveway was there too, and it combined with the fierceness to create an emotion Peter had no name for. Will was muttering to himself, and Peter strained his ears to hear the words.

"For _this_ . . .! Hawkin and Rowlands and Merriman, and all that and so much more, everything, only for . . . _this_. Why did we bother, if it was only for men to destroy themselves in this manner?"

Peter shook his head and straightened up, steadying his weak, nausea- wracked body by pressing his hand against the wall. He glanced at the television again, and he understood now what it could have been that made Jane Davies scream. The blonde was gone, as well as the image of the burning city – which had it been? Sindal or Beniste? Did it even really matter? Now there was just a face, a child's face, fiery red against the whiteness of hospital linen. Except that it wasn't a face, but a melted conglomeration of flesh in which one could just barely make out where the eyes, the ears, and nose had been . . . yes, that gaping hole, that must have been a mouth once, and it must have laughed at one time, laughed with childish delight and abandon. There would be no more laughing now.

And the words kept coming – nuclear _revenge premeditation bombs ethic uncertain radiation_ – except that now they melted into one another so that Peter could only hear snippets, entranced as he was by the images flashing at him from the screen, one face after another, each contorted into a new hideousness, each one fresh evidence of the thousand and one ways that a human being could die. All tended by faceless radiation suits, white fabric with a sheet of dark glass where the face should have been.

A small cry escaped him, something that would have been a shout, had he had any strength left for things like shouting.

"Enough!" Will Stanton exclaimed. He took several swift steps and reached over to switch off the television. The spell was broken, but the silence still complete. No one had said anything since Jane had pointed at the television and said her daughter's name as if she were speaking to a ghost.

Annie was still standing in the archway. Her hands were pressed against the wall on either side of her. Her eyes were wide and terrified, and she continued to stare at the television as if it were still a window into that horrendous Elsewhere that was not, could not be anything like that which her happy young life had ever prepared her for.

She staggered forward into the silence, into the family room that had been transformed into a place of death, and buried her face in her mother's lap. Jane grabbed her daughter and lifted her up, cuddling her close and pressing her face against the young girl's neck, as if it were the mother taking comfort from the daughter and not the other way around. Annie let out a sickly, muttered protest and shut her eyes.

"Mum, what's happening?" she whispered fearfully.

But it was Will who stepped forward. If Peter had been overwhelmed by all he had seen and heard in the last minute, Will Stanton, at least, had missed nothing. "What's happened," he said, slow and blunt, "is that humanity's worst nightmare has come true. Last night, President Muscharch of Yeria dropped the first hydrogen bomb on humankind. He dropped it on his neighbor country, Sindal, an American ally. And so an hour ago the American President dropped the second and third hydrogen bombs on humankind, on the Yerian city of Beniste, and who knows where it all will ends?"

Annie sniffed, rubbing one hand in her grubby eyes. "But why do I feel so sick?"

"I feel sick too," Peter admitted. The words were difficult to say, and to speak he felt as if he had to stretch his mouth awkwardly around them like a rubber band. "I threw up this morning."

Will's eyebrows lowered sharply and he stared at the two children for a second. Then his face cleared. "Nothing more than a flu bug, obviously," he said dismissively. "You both must've caught it yesterday. There are more important things to worry about now." Peter, resentful (more at the tone of the man's voice than the content, for who could worry about a tummy- ache on a day like this?), opened his mouth to give a scathing reply to Will's callousness. But Will's blue-grey eyes fixed on his so forcefully that Peter choked the words back and contented himself with glaring at his father's friend.

"This can't be happening – it can't be," Jane was muttering. She had lifted her face from Annie's neck and was staring blankly at Will, as if she were waiting for him to contradict what he had just said, as if his denial could erase the images that the television had seared into her mind. "Nobody could be so full of hate that they would do such a thing. Kill so many people. Kill us all."

Bran Davies looked at his wife and reached his hand out to grasp hers. "Jenny," he said, his first words since Will and Peter's entrance. His voice sounded as stiff and unwieldly as Peter's had. "It's horrible, but it's true. It must be – "

"No it must NOT!" Jane cried, suddenly wild. She threw her husband's hand from her. "I will not have it! This cannot be the world I live in, this cannot have happened to _my world_! I hate it! I _hate_ it!"

"Jane Drew!" Will Stanton said severely.

Annie gasped.

Jane looked up at the motionless Will, and for a second Peter saw blazing across her face the same resentment that had burned inside him a minute ago. "You! How can you take this so, Will Stanton? How can you be so . . . so . . . _inhuman_?"

Will Stanton stared, struck dumb. A muscle in his cheek jerked. Peter saw the severity waiver and dim, and compassion rise to take its place. His eyes lost their resolution and his mouth opened and shut several times. Without a word he turned away and resumed his solitary vigil at the window. Jane's face fell.

"Will," she said, a stricken shame in her voice. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have spoken so."

"There's nothing to apologize for." The words bristled from the straight back.

"No there is. None of us can help the way we are – "

"Thanks for the compliment." Will turned, and a self-mocking smile played at his lips.

"That's not what I meant!" Peter's mother cried in frustration.

Bran had disengaged himself from his family and stood up. He approached Will Stanton and laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Will," he said slowly, wonderingly, his golden eyes looking straight at the other man. "I don't know why you would think so, but you could not have prevented this."

Will Stanton had been staring ferociously at something unseen, his eyes vacant as they searched some unknown distance. But at Bran's words, his gaze suddenly snapped to his best friend. Some sort of helpless condemnation and despair smoldered in his face.

"Perhaps," he whispered. Peter thought he sounded very much like a boy who had forgotten that which was most important for him to remember. He looked lost. "Oh, I wish . . . I wish he was here."

"Who?" Peter asked. Will shook his head as if to clear it of something and turned away.

Jane Davies was watching her husband and best friend standing by the window, tears transforming her brown eyes into muddy forest pools. "As if any of us could've stopped his from happening," she said helplessly. "Sindal and Yeria will destroy each other, with American help, and the rest of the world will be destroyed with them. What can anyone do in the face of such madness?" It was her turn now to sound fierce. "Come here, Will."

Will obeyed the command and came to stand before Jane. She removed Annie from her lap and placed her gently beside Peter. Jane stood up and put her arms around Will's neck and buried her head in his shoulder. Will's own arms closed around her waist and held her close.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Will! So sorry!" Jane Davies' voice was muffled against the man's sweater. "I don't know what it was that made me speak in that horrible way." She pulled away and tried a wobbly smile. "If such a thing is to happen, at least you're here with us, and we're all together. You, Bran, Peter, Annie and I."

Will smiled in return, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Think no more of it, my dear." He reached out to wipe a tear from her cheek.

Annie was looking up at the adults dominating the room in scared confusion. "What's going to happen?" she asked solemnly. "Are we all going to die?"

"Of course not," Jane said hastily, wiping at her eyes. She let go of Will and sat down again next to her daughter.

"Who knows?" Bran Davies said simultaneously. His wife shot him a warning look. "Well, no one knows anything," he continued with a shrug. "They say Sindal has the bomb, they probably didn't even need us to protect them. I doubt they'll hesitate to use it. And if Muscharch continues dropping his own weapons on them, and they or us keep retaliating, it very well may be the war to end all wars. Mutually assured destruction: M.A.D. We knew Yeria had been armed for years –"

"With black-market weapons," Jane injected bitterly.

"Yes, with weapons the great nations designed and developed and sold for an illegal profit. The whole world is guilty of this together. No one is left with clean hands."

"Only creatures of the earth take from one another," Will intoned softly. "All creatures, but men more than any. Life they take, and liberty, and all that another man may have – sometimes through greed, sometimes through stupidity, but never by any volition but their own. Beware your own race, they are the only ones that will ever harm you, in the end." The small speech ended on a dim, unhappy note.

"Women take too, you know," Jade added absently, automatically.

"Where did you hear that?" Bran demanded.

Will shrugged mutely.

Peter looked outside the window. The early winter sunlight was brilliant and glittered sharply off the white snow. The sky was jewel blue. It was hard to imagine that somewhere, that same beautiful sky was choked with flame and smoke; and that instead of snow, rubble and corpses covered the landscape. He had a sudden vision of his beloved Cader Idris: red, barren, burnt, scorched, clouds of smoke rising in the distance, all the trees, grasses, flowers wilted in death. His breath caught in horror.

Bran Davies was pacing restlessly up and down the room. "Will," he said reluctantly, as if he couldn't keep the words from leaving his mouth, even if he didn't understand them. "What is to be done? Darkness cannot be allowed to fall in this manner."

"No," Will said quietly. Peter saw his gaze pass briefly over him. "It cannot."

"But what can we _do_?" Bran looked at his friend, and there was a shadow on his face that spoke of an attempt to grasp at something he could not quite reach.

Will started at Bran's words, and stared at his friend with curiosity and uncertainty. "Do?" he asked, genuinely surprised. "Why would you think there is anything that we could do?"

"There is you wisdom, Will," Annie said solemnly, her small voice ringing through the room like a bell. There was no hint of whimper now. Peter stared. What was she talking about? She didn't even sound like herself . . .

"Wisdom!" Will scoffed bitterly. "My wisdom won't protect you from a 15 megaton H-bomb."

"We can wait," Jane said firmly. Tear tracks still gleamed on her face, but her eyes were dry, her voice clear and strong. The cheerful, let's- make-the-best-of-it voice dispelled the cloudiness in the room, the darkness Peter had felt ever since he first saw Dick C. Winslow, _Esquire_ staring down his father in the driveway. "And we can live today as if it were any other day. That is the most important thing." She got up and walked towards the kitchen. "I, for one, am dying for some coffee."

Will and Bran glanced at each other. They grinned, and both looked surprised that they were still capable of grinning.

Jane's voice floated dimly back from the kitchen: "I didn't mean it _that way_!"


	7. Chapter Six

Wow, thanks for the review, Lamarquise! There's more for you, and anyone else potentially bothered by this, after the chapter.

Chapter Six  
  
_If you wait long enough beside the river you will see the bodies of your enemies float by._

- Ying Chu  
  
Jane's coffee preparation was disrupted by the mechanical, jangling invasion of the telephone. The unexpected noise hung in the deadened air like a shanked penalty kick, sailing nauseatingly over the crossbar in slow motion, and then both Peter and Annie dove for the white receiver. Annie, who well knew her older brother's ticklish spots, poked him swiftly between the ribs. Peter yelped, and his slight second of contorted spasming was enough to hand Annie the easy victory. She triumphantly lifted the receiver.  
"Hello?"  
It was Uncle Simon and Uncle Barney, calling from someplace called Asamankese, where (as they told an awed Annie) it was almost nightfall. She related this stunning revelation to Peter, who shrugged and looked maturely superior and knowledgeable. Jane heard something about "a salmon keys" and came running from the kitchen, her now-forgotten coffee growing cold upon the stove. Annie was then ignominiously deprived of the hard- fought-for receiver as her mother snatched it heedlessly away.  
"Simon? Barney? Oh thank god." And she floated down upon the couch and put her forehead in one hand.  
There were several minutes spent in comparing and exchanging information, and then several more of I-wish-you-were-heres. "What are they telling you there? . . . Really? No, that's not what we've heard. Everything here's a mess. . . . Any problems getting back home? No? . . . Oh, that'll make me feel better, good idea. Dad was planning on visiting around then, too. The fourth to the twenty-fifth I think. Hold on, let me get some paper and pencil. . . . Six o'clock? On the 3rd? Ok, we'll be there. . . . Travel safely, I'm sure everything will be fine. . . . Yes, yes, I love you boys, too.") Afterwards, Jane handed the receiver to Bran, who spoke quietly to his brothers-in-law for several minutes. He then handed it over to Will and silently mouthed _Barney_ and _They're coming_. Will took the phone with an eager smile and talked almost cheerfully for some time. Then the smile faded.  
"He _does_? Sure, put him on. Hello, Simon, how are – ? . . . Well, I'm lecturing at a college nearby next semester, so I decided to come visit Jane and Bran for a while. . . . Yes, three years is a long time. And sudden visits _are_ my forte. . . . They have grown a lot, but I would know them anywhere. Peter especially. . . . A week, maybe two. The house I'm renting won't be ready till then. . . . Jane's fine, just fine."  
Jane was perched on an armrest, listening. She scowled. "Really!" she muttered. "The protective older brother routine becomes somewhat overdone once the fragile younger sister passes thirty."  
Will was still talking. "I'm not planning on anything at the moment, Simon. . . . I _promise_. . . . Sure, sure, all right." He grimaced and offered the phone delicately to Jane with two fingers, as if it threatened to bite him. "He wants to speak to you again," he stage-whispered.  
Jane grabbed at the phone, giving Will an apologetic and frustrated look. "Will, I'm sorry he's an ass sometimes, but you know he's just upset you're here and he's not – "  
Will grinned. "So he could throw me out, yes." He seemed indifferently amused at the prospect.  
Jane sighed, glared at Will, and put the phone to her rear so that she could play peacemaker and placate her older brother's wounded jealousy.  
Other phone calls piled up throughout the day, an incorporeal lump of communication that squatted invisible upon their living room floor. There was Grumpy Drew, as well as several of Jane's colleagues, who were all nerves and stress shouting hysterically from the receiver. Will himself sat hunkered in the corner with his cell phone, hand cupped around the mouthpiece and shouting, as one long0distance call after another came in from the widespread Stanton clan.  
It was early afternoon when Peter answered the kitchen telephone, and John Rowlands' faintly distant "Hullo? Anyone there?" greeted him. The farmhand's familiar, gravely voice brought sudden tears to the boy's eyes. He wiped them hastily away, before anyone else could see, and asked about Brynne in a falsely cheerful manner. She had had puppies two months ago, Rowlands said. Five of them, three girls and two boys. Davie and Gwennie had already picked out theirs, a pretty little brindle-colored thing they had named Rhiannon. They wanted him to tell Peter they said hello, and wondered when he would be coming back for a visit. Rowlands' easy conversation brought back all the homesickness that Peter felt he should have outgrown years before. The world was mad, and all he wanted was to return to that safe, warm farmhouse, with the sheep bleating in the background and his friends calling him from outside the window.  
There were visitors, too, neighbors who brought commiseration and gossip. Julie McKinley, a young brunette lawyer from across the street, brought the news that Wraithfell's Christmas celebration was being moved up to tomorrow night. "Kind of an affirmation of life and peace type of thing," she told Bran, grinning. "And a way for us all to get together and remind each other that we're still human. I don't know 'bout you, but I've been feeling distinctly statistical all morning."  
And Mrs. Reynolds spent the afternoon with them. She was a widow who lived down the street in a grey house covered by wild roses. She had befriended Jane immediately upon their arrival, showing the grateful younger woman how best to prepare her own rose bushes to meet the horrible, icy onslaught that was a Wraithfell winter. The trick, she had explained, was to cut the plants down brutally and then pack dead leaves around the remains to keep in the warmth.  
Perched upon their couch, the normally strong woman now looked old and angry and weary. Her iron-grey hair escaped in wisps fro the long braid hanging down her back, and her rough gardener's hands clutched at her hemp bag.  
"I tell you," she said harshly to Jane, "I never thought I'd live to see the day. Of course, we had bomb drills and all that back when I was a girl, you know. Hiding under desks and other such nonsense. But still, I never _thought_ . . . I always told myself I'd be dead and buried long before anything like this happened."  
Jane reached out o pat the elderly woman's arm.  
"Dearest Jane," Mrs. Reynolds smiled, and covered the younger woman's hand with her own. "I feel sorriest for you, and for your children. But who would've thought this could ever happen? There hasn't been this much sorrow and disbelief in Wraithfell since those murders at the school all those years ago."  
Peter and Annie had been laying on the floor, flipping between news channels, studying the different photographic tits that each station gave to the identical footage of the distantly burning city. (CNN had a bright, orange-red hue, while MSNBC was more of a bluish-grey. Peter thought the contrasting colors made the events all the more distant, as if they were actually occurring in different dimensions from his own. Anything that had an appearance so easily changed and manipulated couldn't truly be _real_.) He was no longer overwhelmed by what he saw. The images of the dead had vanished, vetoed by some tenderhearted CEO who felt that some forms of reality were simply _inappropriate_ for network news. Now, aside from the Distant Rubble Footage, it was mostly maps and statistics and probabilities, all accompanied by instant "experts" who tried to predict where and when and if Muscharch would strike next. Peter and Annie had been listening to the news with one ear, while they other tuned into the conversation between their mother and her visitor. When Mrs. Reynolds mentioned "murders" Annie, always eager for gruesome stories, turned her head abruptly and asked, "What murders, Mrs. Reynolds?"  
"Annie," Jane admonished softly. "I don't think this is the best time . . ."  
"But _Mom_ . . ."  
"Oh, I don't mind talking about them, m'dear." Mrs. Reynolds tossed her head and smiled brilliantly, if waveringly, at Annie. "Besides, I always enjoyed a good horror blood fest myself when I was a girl. Takes your mind off your _real_ troubles, I always said. And that's what we really need now, isn't it? I always used to read murder mysteries by flashlight under my bedcovers once my parents were asleep. _They_ didn't approve, of course. Such reading wasn't _proper_ for young ladies. But then again, if your parents approve of everything you do in life, I say you haven't really lived." She let out a shaky laugh and shot Jane an abashed, apologetic look.  
"But the murders. These would be up at the Thornhart School . . .say, about thirty years ago. Maybe sometime around '72 or '74. Long before you arrive here. I'm guessing you strangers didn't know that the Barry mansion used to be one of those fancy prep schools for boys?"  
"I heard something about it once," Peter said, rolling onto his back and propping himself up on his elbows. "Some kid at school has a dad who went there. Seems to think it makes him better than everyone else."  
"Well, Thornhart _was_ a very grand place. I remember how it was when I was a little girl, with all those limousines and beautiful parents driving into town at the end of summer to drop off their precious little ones. For days they'd swarm Wraithfell, and then all of a sudden _vanish_, like colorful migrating butterflies, and there would be another quiet winter ahead of us all.  
"The murders changed all that, naturally. The first boy had his skull crushed in, or so we heard. He was found floating in the river down in the valley. He had gone right over the waterfall in the middle of the night, straight through the middle of town, and no one had seen a thing. Two days later, there was another boy in the water, this one strangled. And a week after that, a third, who had had his throat slit."  
"_Ugh_," Peter said, scrunching his nose up.  
"What happened next?" Annie breathed.  
Mrs. Reynolds leaned forward. With her long grey hair, green eyes, and blood-chilling voice, Peter thought she looked very _witchy_. It was a delightful effect. "Well, they never could find nary a clue o' who-dun- it," she said in her best story-time voice. "And so all the lovely parents came and whisked their boys away, and the school closed, and Wraithfell has been quiet ever since."  
"I never heard that story," Jane said, frowning.  
"Well," Mrs. Reynolds said, suddenly sitting back and sounding eminently practical. "No one liked to talk about it much, I guess on account of they're never finding the guilty party. The police always suspected, you see, that it was one of the students, some kind of boyhood revenge scheme gone awry. And the beautiful parents wanted no scandal to smear the bright aspirations of their future little senators and businessmen. They had the sons of some pretty important people studying there. Maybe even a few foreign princelings, I heard once or twice. Bottom-line, the school shushed the story, and few, or no, parents, complained."  
"Wicked," Annie said, and turned back to the television.  
  
While Mrs. Reynolds was busy hypnotizing the Davies children, Will Stanton and Bran Davies were tearing through the guestroom in search of an address book. Will hadn't heard yet from Paul (who was in New York on tour) and he suspected that his dreamy older brother had lost his phone number once again. Will decided he would rather call himself than wait for his brother's head to come down from the clouds and realize that something had gone terribly wrong with the world. But he didn't have the number in his mobile, and that blasted address book was missing yet again. Bran, hearing Will's curses from downstairs, had prudently volunteered his assistance.  
As Will pulled his bag out from under the bed, his thoughts were in a raging disorder. This was going to be difficult. He didn't really have a plan for what he was about to do, and he suspected that Bran might be mulish and suspicious. Will knew exactly where the address book was, hidden away in the small pocket of his brown backpack. Still, he made a show of helplessly fumbling through the bag, and feigned an expression of disbelief when he felt the cool smoothness of the stone beneath his fingers.  
"Hey, Bran!" he cried, straightening up. "Remember this?" And he casually tossed the pebble through the air towards his best friend, the man to whom he was just about to lie shamelessly.  
The blue-green stone flashed through the sunlight, and Bran reached out one pale hand to catch it with ease. He held it in his palm for a second, staring, and then his sudden smile blazed across his face.  
"My, my," he said, pleased. "I didn't know you had kept this little thing all these years. Jane still has hers, you know." He had a silly smile on his face, the same that Will had first noticed when they were fourteen and Jane Drew had hesitantly asked the strange, white-haired boy to play something for her on that pretty harp of his.  
"Really?" Will replied, trying his best to sound as if this was something he didn't already know.  
"Why did you bring it with you?"  
Will reached out an open hand, and Bran placed the stone back in it. He hefted it thoughtfully and sat down on the narrow, guest-bedroom mattress. It wouldn't do to say that the stone was something he carried with him always. Not that he had thought he would ever have a use for it, of course, but its mere presence comforted him.  
Bran was leaning against the wardrobe, watching and listening in that silent, cat-like way he had. Will was no longer sure he knew how to interpret Bran's quietness. It had been many years since he had been the Welsh boy who was the only person ever that Will could tell everything to. If now was like it had used to be, they would be in this together. If now was like it had used to be, things would be . . . different. Will wondered how it was that Jane, human Jane, always knew what the man was thinking.  
"I was reading an article by one of the Heidelberg anthology professors. Kind of a professional courtesy thing, you know? It's his house I'm renting while he goes abroad on some excavating trip in Patagonia. Anyway, he written a lot about some Welsh digs he did, and his article described some stones that sounded a lot like this one. So I figured I'd bring it over and have him look at it, see if it's the same thing he was talking about. If so, it's probably worth a lot of money."  
"What were the stones for?" Bran asked. He tossed his white head and looked at his friend with curiosity.  
"Oh, just the usual spiritual stuff, you know. One color of stone would symbolize land, another water, another fire, another air, and so on. The blue-green ones, like this, were supposed to be water. They were used mostly for ritual decoration. That's the weird thing about them, this article said. The Celts apparently used the quite often, they were very common. But they've found far fewer than they would have supposed."  
"Interesting. So you think Jenny's stone may be one of these elusive Welsh artifacts?"  
"Perhaps. That's what I'm hoping Dr. Elroy will tell me."  
Will could see the instant the idea formed in Bran's head, as well as the cautioning uncertainty that immediately followed. He saw the man fighting with what he wanted to do, and what he knew he probably shouldn't do. Still, boyish curiosity and a sense of possibility won out over prudence, and Bran's golden eyes lit up. "Hey, let me go get Jenny's stone, I know just where it is. She keeps it in her oaken box. If these things really are magical – "  
"I never said that."  
"Well, if they _are_, I want to know. Would this Elroy guy look at ours, too, you think?"  
Will did his best to appear surprised and obliging. He should be happy this was going so well. He had expected that he would have to wheedle Bran into giving him the stone, and here the man was practically shoving it at him of his own free will. He should be grateful, but he still felt like a rat.  
"Oh, sure, if that's what you want me to do, Bran. I'm positive he won't mind. Like I said, it might be worth a lot of money."  
Bran waved a hand dismissively. "I don't care about money, Will. You know me better than that." He grinned crookedly. "Anyway, you know I'm fascinated by everything Celt."  
"Yes, I know," Will murmured.  
"Besides, we could all do with some healthy excitement. Make us remember that we're still living, like Julie said, that there's still new things for us to discover." Bran blushed somewhat as Will raised his eyebrows at the uncharacteristically sentimental words. "Don't laugh like that, Will. You know what I mean. Besides, I'd like to read that article, if you could tell me where to find it."  
Will stammered. "Um, I don't recall the citation off the top of my head. But I'll let you know once I get settled."  
"All right. Let me go tell Jane. She'd go spare otherwise." Bran quickly left the room.  
Will stood, paced the room swiftly a few times, sat down again, and buried his head in his hands. He had to remember that this was all for the best, and absolutely necessary. It didn't matter that he had just manipulated his best friend into giving him one of Jane's most cherished objects, and that neither would probably ever see the keepsake again. Perhaps he should have waited for nightfall and stolen the stone while everyone was asleep. There would've been more complications, but he would've felt better about it. Mere burglary couldn't compare to the betrayal of a friend's trust.  
He was still sitting there when Bran returned, much sooner than Will would've expected. He snapped his head up, panicking, and plastered a cheerfully inane smile on his face.  
"Jane's talking to Madeleine downstairs. The poor old girl seems to be pretty upset, so I didn't want to interrupt. I'll tell her later. Here it is." And he offered the blue-green stone to Will in the palm of his hand.  
"Thanks, Bran," Will said, holding his hand out for his friend to dump the pebble in. As the smoothness touched his skin he felt its warmth, the resonance of the Lost Land that responded to the man now holding it. He swiftly closed his fingers, doing his best to ignore the beckoning tingle. He smiled falsely at Bran (who couldn't tell that the smile was false) and placed both stones carefully in a leather pouch. He turned and his it away in his backpack, whispering the words of concealment under his breath as he did so. He let his fingers accidentally brush against a leather cover. "And look! Here's my address book."

End of Chapter Six

I guess I should use this space to proclaim, now and forever, that I have absolutely NO pretensions concerning science. I have been a little lazy researching this aspect of the story (well, _no_ research has been done, actually, unless you count watching _Dr. Strangelove_ late night on TCM), and I simply picked a particular apocalypse that I thought may work. Two of my great fears in life are nuclear war and air-born hemorraghic fever (read _The Hot Zone_, scariest book in the world), but I didn't think that placing my hero and heroine upon their white steeds and sending them off to fight a microbe would work very well.

Anyway, I picked up _The Sum of All Fears_ to see what it was about (I deliberately avoided the movie. I'm not too fond of Ben Affleck if Matt Damon isn't by his side, and I'm still getting over the nuclear war scene in _Terminator II_, where Sarah Connor has that nightmare about the play ground and all that stuff). I made it to about page thirty, or wherever it is that Clancy has the braless "stupid btch" reporter tear off her blood-soaked blouse hysterically, forgetting that there's nothing underneath. I couldn't read anymore after that. I'm not a raging feminist or anything (I'll always love Dumas' books and movies like _Fight Club_ and _Master and Commander_), but there's a line I have that can't be crossed, and that scene crossed it. And then I skimmed the book and in about fifteen minutes found at least three different scenes where Ryan's wife bemoaned the smallness of her breasts. Please. So I don't think I'm going to be making it through that book (I read Tim O'Brien's _The Nuclear Age_ instead. And while it wasn't very informative, it was pretty amazing and psycho and awesome all around). But I'll get the _Sum of All Fears_ movie and see how that works instead : ). Sorry for the feminist rant, but that book really pissed me off, and I had to let off some steam somewhere. Unfortunately, this was the only forum open to me at the moment. Most of my friends know by know to plug their ears and turn away when I start getting into books. Bottom line, THANKS for such a great review, I really did appreciated it! I hope you keep reading. : ).


	8. Chapter Seven

So, I'll admit I put some horror-movie melodrama in this chapter, but I really enjoyed writing it! Authoress cackles with malicious glee. Enjoy the journey, boys and girls . . .  
  
_Lamarquise_: Don't apologize; I enjoy being offended : ). Or, rather, I enjoy finding things to be offended about! Thanks for the summary, I'm still working on getting the movie. But here's the real question. Which creates the biggest explosion at the Super Bowl? A nuclear bomb or Janet Jackson's breast? Food for thought . . . : )  
  
Comments, criticisms, and gushing praise are always welcome! Please R&R!  
  
As always, Standard Disclaimers apply. Susan Cooper owns everything. I merely possess an overactive imagination and a surplus of time. And the movie quote is from Burton's Batman.

**Chapter Seven  
**  
"_Dreams surely are difficult, confusing, and not everything in them is brought to pass for mankind. For fleeting dreams have two gates: one is fashioned of horn and one of ivory. Those which pass through the one of sawn ivory are deceptive, bringing tidings which come to nought, but those which issue from the one of polished horn bring true results when a mortal sees them_."

- Homer, _The Odyssey_  
  
What with phone calls and visitors and television and Mrs. Reynolds, it was the longest day of Peter's life. Still, it passed, as all days before it had passed, and as all days afterwards would follow. There was dinner as always upon the table at seven, and if Jane had accidentally flavored the salad with melted butter and the mashed potatoes with vinaigrette, no one actually tasted the difference.  
  
Afterwards, Jane took a protesting Annie by the hand and firmly marched her upstairs to bed. Peter remained with Will and his father downstairs, sprawled lazily upon the couch, watching more reruns off Distant Rubble Footage and Expert Opinions and trying to postpone the dreadful moment when he would have to be alone. But soon, despite his best efforts, giant yawns started to overtake him, and sandbags began to weight at his eyelids . . .  
  
. . . he blinked, and his mother was shaking his shoulder and he was struggling towards wakefulness. The lights were dim, the television off, and the room empty. All was quiet, and his mother was whispering small, nighttime words in his ear. Blindly, Peter stumbled to his feet and up the stairs, Jane guiding him gently by the shoulders. Once he was pajama-clad, she entered his room and lifted the covers up around his chin and brushed his dark hair from his brow to clear a space for her kiss, a nighttime gesture she had not – at Peter's request – performed for several years.  
  
He made no objections tonight.  
  
Peter closed his eyes under her touch and dreamily wished he were a child again. Child-Peter wouldn't have to spend this night alone. He could wait several minutes and then tiptoe across the hallways in his padded pajama feet to gently open his parents' door. He would run across their floor, catapult himself upon the large bed, and bury his face in his father's diaphragm, letting the large, steady breathing drown out all fears until he slowly fell asleep.  
  
But that Child-Peter was living in a ghost-world across the Atlantic. The Peter he knew was here, and his mother was gently wishing him goodnight and walking out of the room, closing the door upon him. And the here-and-now- Peter shivered, and slowly began to drown in darkness . . .  
  
. . . _The city was beautiful, all arches and grey stone and spiraling turrets that glittered in the sun. Colorful flags and banners snapped cheerfully in the breeze, which blew the wispy mane of a horse across Peter's hands. He was mounted upon a magnificent creature, a golden-hued mare harnessed with silver.  
  
High grey walls rose up on either side of him, and between them a throng of people shouted and waved at Peter joyously. Hands cheerfully patter his legs, and children smiled up at him from behind gap-toothed grins. Through an archway Peter could see green fields, and above them a blue sky accented by puffy white clouds.  
  
It was High Summer. And all the Land was rejoicing.  
  
From somewhere within the crowd a red rose was thrown. Peter, laughing, reached out a hand to catch it. He was a second too late, however, and the flower fluttered to the cobbled road, just beyond the reach of his fingers.  
  
Peter stared at the flower against the stones, forlorn and vulnerable to careless feet, and tears welled in his eyes. He pointed in longing and desperation.  
  
And a boy, blond-haired and blue-eyed, smiled secretively up at him and knelt to retrieve the flower from the ground. Laughing in relief, Peter held out a trusting hand. Grinning, the boy held the rose out and their fingers met. The childish hand clutched at his.  
  
Peter gasped.  
  
For the childish hand was not childish at all, but worn and withered and skeletal. Dry bony fingers clamped about his wrist, and Peter helplessly tried to twist away. The boy tugged at his arm, and Peter looked up to see the flesh upon the young face melting in rivulets, a red ooze revealing a bleached white skull. Clear blue eyes were drowning in green pus, and sharp pointed teeth bit into a tongue of flame, which bled blackness. Blond locks transformed into snakes, which elongated and slithered up the bony arm to lick at Peter's fingers with their flickering tongues.  
  
Peter screamed.  
  
The horse below him shrieked in response and went to rear; but there was no longer a golden horse, but only bones and dust under Peter's legs. The bones collapsed, and he found himself lying crumpled among a dusty heap of clattering ribs, and the death grip on his hand never loosened.  
  
The Boy-Thing-Monster screeched from its burning mouth:  
  
"See! See where it comes!"  
  
And the crowd of beautiful people vanished, turning into ash and blowing away in the wind that suddenly whipped up and tore Peter's screaming (he had never stopped) from his throat. The grey walls grew old and mossy and crumbled with all the roar of centuries compressed into seconds. The blue sky became smothered in greenish-purple clouds. The rose still clenched in Peter's hand shot out tendrils that slithered up his arm and twisted about his neck. The thorns dug into his skin, and Peter could feel blood running down his chest.  
  
And where the walls had been he saw upon the red horizon a great wave of water, rushing towards him. Black water, teeming with writhing creature for which there were no names. And the surface of the water was burning. Water and Flame rushed the City at once.  
  
The Witch-Boy was giggling, and the green-pus eyes rolled.  
  
"Aye, Sir Peter, 'tis too late! And thou canst tell the Watchman we said so. Take the message for us, willt thou?" And he stuck his face in Peter's, who gagged at the overwhelming stench of the putrid breath. He opened his mouth to speak, but the constricting rose left him with no breath. He choked.  
  
"What will ye do, Sir Peter?" the Witch-Boy hissed mockingly. "You can't win this time. 'Tis our turn, now! We will win – we_ have _already won. See, the waters of flame come! Nothing shall stop them, and darkness rides upon their crests!"  
  
Peter looked and saw it was true, and cried deep within his heart.  
  
"Oh, Peter Peter Peter, 'tis a pity and a shame, but you've lost already . . . lost lost lost . . . the land is lost . . . what will ye do? What can ye do, Sir Peter, against_ death_?"  
  
And the Witch-Boy began to laugh convulsively, and the convulsion spread to Peter through the death grip on his hand, and his body began to shake, and the Witch-Boy again opened its mouth, and there was a great stink, and it began to shout hysterically, over and over and over again: "Peter! Peter! Peter Peter Peter . . ."_

"_Peter_!"  
  
He woke. Serpentine sheets twisted about his neck and arms, and he couldn't breath. He realized that his fingernails were digging into his chest, and he slowly relaxed his hands and pried them away from his body. Someone was shaking him, gently yet firmly.  
  
"Wake up, Peter Davies," a deep voice said.  
  
"Argh," he moaned.  
  
He was exhausted, and in his tiredness the shreds of the dream began to fall away from his memory, until nothing remained save a vague feeling of unease and dread.  
  
"What is it?" he mumbled, pushing himself up against his pillows and blinking in confusion. The room was pitch dark, except for a square of blue moonlight that slid in through the widow.  
  
"Shhh!"  
  
A shadowed Will Stanton was standing by his bedside, a cautioning finger pressed to his lips. For several seconds Peter stared in terror, for Will was swathed in a strange, midnight blue cloak with a hood pulled over his face that made recognition difficult in the darkness.  
  
"Will," he asked. "What's going on? Has something happened?"  
  
"Nothing's happened, don't worry. Here, just get up and put this on."  
  
Will Stanton held something limp and dark out to Peter. Peter took it, wondering. It was several seconds before he realized that it was a cloak just like Will's, but on a smaller scale. He looked up in sleepy, dim- witted confusion. "I don't understand – "  
  
"See, I _told_ you he was impossible to wake up! We should've dumped a glass of water on him. That's what _I_ always do." It was a second voice, quick and light and very much awake. Annie. "Come on, Peter, hurry up!" Her words quivered with suppressed impatience and excitement.  
  
"Annie? Where are you?" Peter peered into the darkness.  
  
"Right here, silly." She stepped out from behind Will. She was wearing a third identical cloak. Her black hair blended with its shadows so that only her pale face and bright blue eyes were visible.  
  
"What's going on?"  
  
"_Hush_, boy. No questions, now, I'll explain everything soon. Get dressed."  
  
Bemused, Peter hauled himself out of bed and shrugged into the strange cloak. The heavy folds dragged at his shoulders, and the muffling hood made it impossible to use his peripheral vision. He raised a hand to sweep it back.  
  
"No. Leave it up. Follow me." Will turned away and led them out into the hallway. They tiptoed cautiously past his parents' room, and then Will halted before the doorway to the attic. He twisted the doorknob without a sound. A yawning black pit appeared. Will took two steps forward and vanished into the darkness.  
  
Peter went to follow and then paused. There was a small pulling at his cloak, and he turned his head to see Annie beside him, her eyes wide as she stared at the opening. Wordlessly, he took her hand and without hesitation entered the stairwell and shut the door behind them.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

The dream threw Jane from sleep. She was flung upright in bed, and her hands were clenching the bedclothes on either side of her. She relaxed her grip, but then her hands began to shake. She breathed deeply, but her stupid hands kept shaking, and she couldn't stop them. So she stood up and went to go stand by the window and gaze upon the winter night. She opened the sash, welcoming the bitterly cold air on her flushed cheeks. She thrust her face outside and lifted it to absorb the moonlight.  
  
_Have you ever danced with the devil by the pale moonlight?_  
  
A quote from some movie she had seen once. For some reason, it fit her mood tonight. She felt a little mad.  
  
She hadn't really expected a quiet night's rest. Indeed, she hadn't expected to sleep at all. But Bran, the dear boy, had fallen swiftly into a deep slumber, and she had rested her had upon that well-loved shoulder and listened to his heartbeat until she found herself slipping quietly away.  
  
But she hadn't anticipated that her girlhood dream would revisit her, not tonight of all nights. It had been years. She looked out at the snow and tried to trace the memory of a face against its whiteness.  
  
It had been a favorite game of hers throughout adolescence, this grasping at remembrance. She had never spoken to another about it, not her brothers, not even Bran. She usually got as far as a craggy nose and wild white hair. But then she could never quite decide whether the mouth was merry or stern, or whether the eyes were grey or blue or brown. Any by the time she got there, she could no longer remember whether she had decided this time that the nose was hooked or straight, or whether the hair, after all, was smooth and long rather than bushy and wild.  
  
And at that point she would give it all for lost and crawl back between her sheets to be welcomed by more mundane dreams. Normal dreams, such as everyone had, about walking down the street naked, or flying, or being chased by bloodthirsty inch worms.  
  
Tonight had been different, though, she thought. There had been the usual mountains and wind and the wild old man who waved at her from a distance. And, as always, Bran, Will, Simon, and Barney were standing beside her. And the sadness, oh yes, the sadness was always there.  
  
But as far as she could remember, the man had never spoken to her before.  
  
She frowned out at the darkness. The words were there in her head, she just couldn't quite remember them. She would grasp at one, but then three more would slip away from her, like water running through a sieve.  
  
Something about what had happened today. That's what the wild old man had talked to her about. How odd. She must have subconsciously processed it all or something, and then regurgitated the news in a dream that was just as comforting to her as it was loved.  
  
So there was something about the bombings, and then the old man had told her that everything would be all right. And then he had said something about Peter, and about Annie, and it was here that everything went fuzzy.  
  
But the next part had been clear enough. The wild old man had vanished, and Will had turned to her.  
  
"_It's time, Jane Drew_," he had said. "_Give me the stone_."  
  
The words were sharp in her memory, so sharp that they seemed to be spoken by the air around her. She pressed her palms against the windowsill and bent her head so that her long brown hair fell about her face. She was intent, listening for more. But nothing else came. She closed the window.  
  
She sighed and tossed her hair back and walked over to her oakwood box. It was inevitable. Always after the dream she would think of the stone and she could never rest peacefully until she had felt it against her palm. She opened the lid and happily inhaled the familiar odor of the wood.  
  
But the box was empty.  
  
Jane stared. It couldn't be.  
  
Her stomach plunged and she felt as if she wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. For a second panic threatened, but then she took a deep breathe and pushed the hysteria away and began to think rationally.  
  
There was nothing she could do tonight. All she would accomplish by waking Bran and the children would be to make everyone unhappy and grumpy. Tomorrow would come soon enough, when she could search for the stone by daylight. And who knew? Perhaps she was still dreaming and she would wake up and open the lid and there her treasure would be, blue-green shining in the sun. And maybe, after all, it would b best not to tell anyone about it for several days, at least until she knew that it was well and truly lost. She didn't want to make Bran feel bad unless she had to.  
  
She walked determinedly back to bed and crawled in beside Bran.  
  
Just before she slept, words floated into her head. They belonged to a man's voice. Not Bran's. Not Will's. No one she could place a name to. But the voice had the same quality Will's sometimes possessed: a Remoteness, tempered with pride, strength, and affection.  
  
"_Thank you, Jane Drew. Sleep well. No more dreams tonight, child, I promise_."


	9. Chapter Eight

Sorry for the posting delay. I thought I would have more time over the summer, and I do. However, I didn't realize that a 9-5 job stuck sitting in front of a computer would pretty much kill any desire I had to spend even more hours in front of a computer updating, especially since this chapter is a bit longer than most. Sorry!  
  
Standard disclaimers apply. Will Stanton and The Dark is Rising series belong to Susan Cooper.  
  
**CHAPTER EIGHT**  
  
For every up there is a down  
For every square there is a round  
For every high there is a low  
For every to there is a fro  
To and fro  
Stop and go  
That's what makes the world go round  
  
-- The Sword in the Stone, Disney   
  
Peter and Annie had walked up the attic stairs countless times before, but always in broad daylight, when sunbeams streamed through the windows and danced among the dust motes. Now, there was just blackness. Peter raised a hand before his eyes and saw nothing. The smell of dust and cobwebs assaulted his nose, and he felt the abrasive presence of rough wood even through his thick slippers. Annie's hand was clammy, and her fingers clenched at his.  
  
"Will?" he called tentatively into the darkness.  
  
No answer. The only sound was Annie's breath fluttering in the darkness beside him. Peter's stomach began to churn. The darkness was pulling at him, dragging and clawing at the very essence of his body. And then –  
  
_Thump_! _Thud_!  
  
Peter jumped and clamped his hand desperately on Annie's shoulder.  
  
"_Blast_! Stupid, bloody stairs!"  
  
Will's familiar voice cut through the panic like a knife through butter.  
  
Peter sighed and his whole body relaxed. The darkness was growing lighter. By now he could see Will Stanton bending down and rubbing at his big toe in irritation. Annie was giggling. Peter distracted himself from the oddly uproarious sight of a peevish Will Stanton by looking around. Everything seemed different at night. Ever flaw in the wood was glaringly apparent, and the brightness reflected off it's faded yellow surface so that there were no shadows anywhere. It was quite light by now and –  
  
Peter gasped.  
  
He knew well enough that there was no light bulb in the stairwell. It was one of those small projects that his parents kept saying they would accomplish but never seemed to get around to. Just in case, he lifted his head and scanned the ceiling. No, there was no light there. He looked round in confusion. There was no possible place the light could be coming from, except for –  
  
"Will?" he said wonderingly.  
  
The man stopped grimacing and looked at Peter. Upon seeing Peter's shocked expression, all annoyance died from Will's face like a snuffed out candle. He stood up swiftly and shook out his foot. He turned around and once more began heading up the stairs.  
  
"Come on," he ordered sharply.  
  
Peter and Annie glanced at each other and followed without protest. Halfway up the stairs, Annie pulled again at Peter's cloak. Carefully, he lowered his head so that she could whisper in his ear.  
  
"Do you see it too, Peter?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"He's _glowing_."  
  
There was no doubt about it. Will Stanton, trudging up the steps before them, was shedding a gentle illumination from the folds of his blue cloak. Looking closely, Peter could see that the light came from a small intricate pattern of lines and curlicues that ran all over the material. It must be some new kind of synthetic material that trapped light, he thought, like glow-in-the-dark t-shirts.  
  
They emerged into the attic, dimly lit by two small windows at either end. The cavernous room bulged with the furniture of previous occupants. Huge piles of books and clothes and boxes towered on all sides. Draped over the larger piles were white sheets that gleamed in the moonlight, creating an alien landscape rather than the hoard of potential treasure that they had plundered so cheerfully (and unsuccessfully) when they first arrived.  
  
Will walked purposefully across the room and opened the hatch that led out onto the balcony, a narrow, fenced-in shelf that perched upon the Davies' slanted roof. Peter followed, puzzled, for he hadn't known that Will knew about the tiny, hidden-away place. The children had ignored it since the novelty of the thing had worn off, for it was old and rickety, and so small that there was standing room only. It collected leaves in the fall and pollen in the spring, and since the view was hardly spectacular, Peter had only been driven there once or twice in his more desperate searches for solitude.  
  
The squeezed through after Will and surfaced into the winter night. A full moon sailed overhead, washing the snow-covered landscape in mystery. Everything was silvery beautiful and quiet.  
  
Will Stanton was standing right up against the center of the railing, his back immovable and his arms folded across his chest. Whatever light his cloak had been shedding was now faded, and his still figure was a dark slash across the sky. The Davies children hung back, watching as he wordlessly stared into the winter night.  
  
"Shut the door, children," Will's voice came at last.  
  
Peter turned and gently let the hatch fall shut behind him. It was only when he felt his fingers slip along the ice-encrusted handle that he realized that he felt no cold within the cloak that Will had given him, although the balcony was snow-covered and the air had that sharp, below freezing bite. He felt the bite, but not the chill. It was an odd sensation.  
  
"Come stand next to me, one of you on each side."  
  
They joined Will at the railing's edge.  
  
"Now watch. And do not be frightened."  
  
With those words, Will Stanton raised his arms to the sky and shouted a strange word Peter had never heard before.  
  
Annie gasped.  
  
Every light on the street had, without warning, been extinguished. And it wasn't only their street. Peter could see darkness stretching as far as he could look in every direction. There was no dim glow coming from downtown Wraithfell, and even the orange horizon haze from the distant metropolis had vanished. Everything was dark, black, except for the blazing immensity of the full moon hanging above their heads. Peter watched it in fascination. It had never appeared so large or bright before.  
  
Then he frowned.  
  
At first he thought he was imagining it. He squeezed his eyes shut and looked again. But it was still there, wavering at the edges of the bright disc: a black, oozing cloud that wasn't a cloud at all, but something that moved with viscous fluidity across the moon's surface. It stretched out over the great light like an oil slick on water, dimming the moon's radiance. For the first time Peter felt a chill – one that had nothing to do with the cold – sweep through his frame.  
  
"Will, what's that? What's happening?" he asked quietly, voice strained.  
  
There was no answer for several seconds. When Will finally responded, his voice was artificially calm, as if he were merely appraising a particularly nasty and complicated math problem.  
  
"That, children, is the Dark."  
  
From the other side of Will's shadowy form, Peter heard Annie's voice, tight and grim.  
  
"I don't like it. It's horrible!"  
  
"Then let us not watch it anymore!" Will said. He deliberately turned his back on the night sky and away from the oily blackness. The streetlamps flared back into life, washing out the sky with their glow. With one last, fearfully fascinated glance at the now rapidly fading black shadow, Peter followed Will's example and turned so that he faced the shingles of the Davies' roof.  
  
Annie was watching Will with a look of comprehension on her face. "That was it, wasn't it?" she asked bluntly. "That's what's making all these bad things happen."  
  
Will looked down at her with wary eyes. "Part of it, yes. But not everything. Not the most important thing."  
  
"What do you mean?" Peter asked, his voice breaking on the last note. His hands were trembling, and he clenched them inside his sleeves to keep Will from noticing. "Did you bring us here just to show us that? What was it? You drag us from bed in the middle of the night to go rooftop stargazing in Star Wars cloaks, and then you show us . . . _that_?!"  
  
"Yes, Peter, that's why I brought you two here tonight. And I told you what it was: it's the Dark."  
  
"What the hell's the dark?"  
  
Will's hooded head gazed at him, and Peter shivered when those strange, distant eyes fell on his face. This wasn't Will, but a complete stranger, some fanatic alien creature rather than the amiable man who had dangled him on his knees as a baby and who had driven all the way from Buckinghamshire to hear his third grade harp recital. Gazing fearfully at the stranger, Peter could come to no conclusion other than that Will Stanton had become, suddenly and irrevocably, absolutely insane.  
  
But then Will ran a hand roughly over his face and sighed. When he looked back at Peter he was Will again, nothing more than a staid, middle-aged lit professor who spent hours translating ancient texts.  
  
"The Dark is . . . the Dark," Will said slowly. "It'll be harder for you to understand this than Annie, Peter, and it's because you're almost an adult. If you were a few years older you would have pitched me off the roof by now. And you would have thought you were doing it for my own good, too. It's so hard to explain. The best I can do, I guess, is to put it in practical terms that are easy for you to understand."  
  
"Such as?"  
  
"You're a budding mathematician, Peter. Do you know anything about binary code?"  
  
Peter blinked. The last thing he had expected to come from Will's mouth was computer theory. "Of course I'm familiar with it," he said scornfully. "It's a basic computer programming construct that uses only 0s and 1s. Zero means there is an electrical current, and 1 means there is no current. It's kinda like . . . like the 1s are 'no's and the 0s are 'yes's. A positive and a negative. You can have a complete language with only those two things."  
  
"And are you familiar with Newton's Third Law?"  
  
"Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. That's easy. What does all this have to do with anything?"  
  
"The Dark, Peter, is something like your binary code '1.' It's the ultimate negative. The impulse to destroy, negate."  
  
Annie's little voice was strangely stern. "It's evil. That's what you mean."  
  
"It's more than just evil, dear. Evil presupposes the capacity to be good. The Dark lacks that capacity. There is nothing within it but emptiness, a great yearning black pit. To put in perhaps in other scientific terms, it's an absolute vacuum."  
  
"Or, I should rather say, was a complete vacuum. What you just saw wasn't the full strength of the Dark. That's a sight that shall never again be seen by human eyes. The cloud you saw was merely a shadow of the substance, a physical manifestation of the resonance that remained when the Dark left this world forever."  
  
"Left it forever?"  
  
"Yes, Peter. The Dark has been driven out and may never enter this world again. But while it was here it was able to do a great many things, including establish itself in human hearts. Whenever a person abandoned themselves to fury, began to hate without reason and to scorn the idea of love, it opened a channel through which the Dark was able to work. And even though the Dark is now banished, it left behind these traces of itself the way a retreating army buries hidden mines that explode and kill their pursuers. It survived because it had been welcomed into and hidden inside human hearts."  
  
"I don't understand. Are you saying that that black goo _made_ Muscharch do what he did? That it's _inside_ him?"  
  
"Don't be so literal, Peter," Annie scoffed. "I think I know what Will means."  
  
Will looked troubled. "'_Made'_ him? No, I wouldn't say that. Persuaded him, perhaps." He grinned suddenly. "And our job is to un-persuade him."  
  
Peter studied Will. The man's face was smooth and young, his voice low and fervent. He remembered the stranger who had looked out at him from Will's eyes. He choose his next words carefully, not entirely sure what he was asking.  
  
"You asked me a minute ago if I was familiar with Newton's Third Law."  
  
Will's eyes flicked over to him. "Yes?"  
  
"Newton's Third Law says that every action has an equal and opposite reaction."  
  
"Yes."  
  
"So if there is a Dark . . . there must be a Light. The ultimate negation must have an ultimate affirmation. Something that is beyond good, just as the Dark is beyond evil." Peter stared levelly at his father's friend.  
  
Will grinned. "Well done, Peter."  
  
Peter's head spun. Who . . . what was Will?  
  
"Give me your hands, children. There's something I want to show you."  
  
Will extended his left hand to Peter and his right to Annie. Annie grasped Will's hand without hesitation and looked expectantly at her brother. Peter dared not refuse the command. But something inside him balked, panicked, refused to go forward into a new world that he knew would tear apart his old. Hesitantly, he reached his palm out.  
  
Without warning, Will's hand darted forward and grabbed his own in a vice- like grip.  
  
And Peter's whole world exploded. 


	10. Chapter Nine

A/N: A somewhat long chapter this time. Enjoy, it may be some time till the next. Sadness. But school's starting again, and I'll also be spending lots of time this fall flying to various places for interviews. Not much fun, and it takes too much time away from writing. Bah humbug. Still, please read and review! And I'm selfish enough to say that the more reviews I get . . . the sooner the next chapter will go up. : ).

_Miruvour_: Thanks for the review, I love new reviewers. Sorry about the cliffie, I can't resist them. It's slowly becoming an addiction.

_AutumnHeart_: Will's cloak . . . hmm, I didn't really think of the glowing cloak as any kind of specific spell. Honestly, I'm afraid that I added it in because I thought it was – as you so aptly described it – kinda funky. I've always seen magic as something that just simply happens, something that's in the air around you and which may act in weird and unpredictable ways. Much as I love Harry Potter, I've never had much use for wands and incantations. So really, I don't even know if Will realized that his cloak was glowing. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. Either way, I don't think he was very much surprised : ).

Standard Disclaimers Apply. Susan Cooper owns Will Stanton and The Dark Is Rising Series.

**CHAPTER NINE**

"Nothing is written."

Peter O'Toole as T.E. Lawrence, _Lawrence of Arabia_

First everything went utterly black. Eyes wide open, Peter stared blindly into an abyss. It was much worse than the darkness you see when you look at the inside of your eyelids. This was spatial. Peter could feel the immensity of the emptiness, and his terror was made all the more real by the fact that there was nothing supporting him in the great void. He plummeted wildly through nothingness.

But then there was a great explosion of images, like fireworks against a velvety summer sky. One by one they flashed swiftly before him, only to fade quickly and be replaced by something else.

A large tree grew upon a hill, and a black tornado roared towards it. A red-haired man with icy blue eyes rode a black horse through a thunderous sky and then was rearing above him on a snow-covered lane that ran through a wood. He saw an immense sad face, neither male nor female, covered with leaves and berries, peering closely at him, wailing in an echoing voice: "_My secret . . . my secret . . .!_" There was a golden white horse to complement the black, and an old man with wild white hair and a large hooked nose. A dancing skeleton horse, ribbons entwined within its skull, jeering at him with the clattering teeth of madness. A cup of some sort, spinning brilliantly in the air before plunging down into the blue waters of a sun-dappled bay. Six circles quartered by crosses, joined together by links of gold, burning burning.

Faces rushed him. A slender, white-haired boy stood upon Cader Idris with a white dog bristling by his side. The dog's eyes were silver. And he saw another boy, his sweating face flushed with fever, mumbling, "_I've lost it, I've lost it!"_ Three different children, two boys and a girl, bent over a piece of brittle parchment in an attic. One of the children, the girl, cowering defiantly before a horned monster that rose up out of a lake before her. The white-haired boy angrily gesturing from the bluff above her.

And a man's bearded face, strangely familiar, staring at him gravely with blue eyes from beneath the hood of a blue-green robe. "_Beware your own race, Bran Davies. They are the only ones that will ever harm you, in the end_." A sword glimmered from the man's waist. The old man with wild white hair stood by his side, cloaked in midnight blue. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen stood upon a hillside, her white arms stretched out in supplication to someone unseen, her loose black hair streaming in the wind. Tears ran down her pale cheeks. And then another face, terrifyingly unnatural, because it was neither man nor beast, but an abnormal blending of the two. Horns sprouted from the curly hair, and the mouth was twisted with pride and ferocity. And then Peter saw the eyes and gasped in horror. They were his own eyes, owl's eyes, golden orbs rimmed by great pale feathery lashes.

The creature vanished, and once more there was the black tornado roaring down upon the tree on a hill. He could see six figures – or was it seven? – encircling the tree, holding something in their hands that blazed out at the darkness threatening to engulf them. And then there was an even greater blaze, that one figure swung at the tree. A great flash and a shrill scream, and everything went dark.

And suddenly Peter was back upon the balcony, the creaky wood straining under his feet and the breath roaring in and out of his lungs. His fingers were hurting, and he realized that his hand was clutching at Will's in a panic. He gasped and slowly loosened his grip. Flecks of color dotted his vision, and he shook his head to clear them away. Beads of sweat flew from his forehead.

Two bright spots of red burned in Annie's cheeks. She looked invigorated, animated, shining with exhilaration. Her blue eyes moved to meet her brother's golden ones, and she gave him a look that was the silent equivalent of "Whoowhee!"

Will withdrew his hands from theirs and folded his arms across his chest and said nothing.

Annie looked away from her brother and turned her eyes up to Will. Her face was eager and impatient. "That boy, the one with the silver dog. Was that Dad?"

Will nodded. "Yes, Annie. That was your father when he was three years younger than Peter is now, growing up a boy in Wales. That was the first time I met him."

"And Mum? Did we see her?"

"Yes, and your uncles Simon and Barney."

"They were the three children with the map?"

"Of course."

"What was that?" Peter managed to ask, his voice husky. He was still reeling from the vision of those eyes that were so like and unlike his own. So similar in color, but containing a fierceness that wasn't – that couldn't be – human. "And not just the map. Everything. Whatever it was we saw."

"Images from the past, Peter, from the last great rising of the Dark. The battle that your parents, uncles, and myself won for humankind. I showed them to you to help you understand, at least a little, what it is we must do."

"I don't believe you," Peter spat, lying. Fear forced the words from him. "There's nothing we can do, it's too late! The bombs are already fallen." He was suddenly – inexplicably – angry. "Are you daft? Don't you realize we've lost already? And even if what you say is true, why didn't Mum and Dad ever mention it? Why do you tell us now?"

"They didn't tell you because they don't remember," Will answered, his words clipped and abrupt. "It was best that they be made to forget. And I tell you now because you need to know." His face was troubled, and he stared at Peter as if he was confronted with an unanticipated problem he wasn't quite sure he knew how to solve. "And don't be so hopeless, Peter."

Peter didn't hear Will's last sentence through the roaring in his ears, the roaring of falling grey walls. "Know what?" he demanded. "What is it, _really_, that we need to know?" He couldn't fight the sarcasm that dripped from the words.

"That you two children are somehow woven into the pattern of the battle between Light and Dark. Your blood demands it. And I must now call upon you in this battle, for I myself cannot defeat the evil that Muscharch has unleashed upon this planet."

"Why not? What _are_ you, Will Stanton?"

A mirthless grin crossed the man's face. "I cannot win this battle, Peter, because this is a human problem, and I am not entirely human."

The words fell into a silence that smothered the whole night, dropping them all into a pool of darkness. Peter remembered his mother's accusation from that morning: _How can you take this so, Will Stanton? How can you be so . . . so . . . inhuman?_

"The Light does not meddle with human affairs, our sole purpose is – was – to defeat the Dark. Over the centuries we have learned, sometimes painfully, that it is best, more wise, to leave men and women to their own management. We do not interfere. Indeed, to do so, even for your benefit, would be to take away your greatest gift." Will's voice sounded tired. "I am merely a Watchman, the last of the Old Ones, set here alone to guard from just such an occurrence as happened yesterday morning, when, through human agency, a remnant of the Dark brought havoc upon humankind."

"This problem stems from the Dark, but it possesses a human face. You could almost say that I don't . . . have complete jurisdiction in such matters. But I am here to help."

Peter remained sullenly silent. Annie's voice was a strange mixture of hope and fear. "Are we . . . are _we_ human, Will?"

Will let out a loud bark of laughter. "Yes, dear heart," he chuckled. "You and your brother are all too human, and thanks the stars for it, too."

Peter felt mulishly awkward and inadequate. "But what can we do, Will? I don't understand what you want from us."

"I want nothing more than what you're willing to give, Peter." Will spread his hands before him in a gesture of trust and acceptance.

Peter scowled. He wanted answers, facts. Not more ambiguities.

Will continued. "There is perhaps a long journey before us, children, but only if you wish it. The Light can force you into nothing. If you wish, you can return to your beds and fall asleep. When you wake in the morning, you will have no recollection of what you saw and heard tonight."

"But who would stop Muscharch then?" Annie asked innocently. The question betrayed her absolute confidence that she herself could do it, if only given the chance.

Will said nothing.

"Nothing would happen, right?" Peter asked scornfully. "Muscharch will drop another bomb, or Sindal will, or we will, and no one could do anything about it. It's too late."

"Perhaps yes, perhaps no," Will said mildly, deliberately ignoring Peter's rudeness. "It's impossible to tell what might transpire. It's possible that Muscharch or Sindal or the President would chose to refrain from their own free will. Or that they will be persuaded that the path they have chosen is madness."

"But no certainty?"

"There's never any certainty where human affairs are concerned," Will said simply.

Annie raised her hands and lowered her dark hood, shaking her black hair out in the night. She let her arms fall to her sides and made herself as tall as her seven-year-old body would allow. "Of course we'll help, Will," she said proudly. "How could we do anything else?"

"And you, Peter?"

Peter watched Will silently. The face of his father's friend was completely devoid of expression. No help there. He knew what he wanted to say, what it was that he _should_ say, but he had difficulty thinking of the words. They stuck in his throat. It was as if something within him was screaming hysterically, choking off whatever he wanted to say. Peter fought the screaming and pushed it back, deep within himself.

"Naturally, Will," he finally managed to whisper, wondering what it was he was agreeing to. "Anything."

The smile that flashed across Will Stanton's face was sudden and electrifying. Peter stared. From behind the middle-aged man's features, he saw a boy grinning at him. A stocky boy, with a round, placid face and a shock of brown hair that fell in his eyes. It was the boy from the picture. It was as if all sternness and solemnity of the Will Stanton Peter knew was merely a mask, which, having served its purpose, the man not casually tossed away.

And then Will Stanton once again raised his arms to the sky. He began to sing, his rich deep voice rippling through the winter air. Peter had never heard such signing before. He listened, enraptured, to words he couldn't understand. But there was no mistaking the meaning of the song: it was a celebration; a magical invocation of . . . something.

And Peter could feel the music entering him, searching for something. It poked through his mind and memory. And evidently it found whatever it was seeking, for Peter felt a great _rip_ within him, and some darkness he didn't know he had been carrying was torn away. He gasped, suddenly feeling completely light and free. He felt as if he could do anything.

The last note of the song slowly died away, like a distant hawk slowly vanishing into the sunset. Peter tried to catch the final words, amazed to find that he was already forgetting the melody. But now there was just silence.

Annie smiled through tears that gleamed in her eyes. "That was beautiful, Will."

Will smiled and looked a little abashed. "Ah, well," he said. "My brother James' much better than I. But I guess I can do well enough." He turned his head and studied Peter from beneath arched eyebrows. "And how are you feeling now, Peter?" he asked casually.

"Great," Peter said in a daze. "Never felt better."

Will right hand reached into a pocket of his robe. "Good. Then here, I have something for you."

He fumbled for a few seconds and then withdrew his hand from the pocket. He held his clenched fist flat out before them and slowly opened his fingers. Two small blue-green stones lay in his palm.

Annie gasped. "That's Mum's stone! The one Dad gave her when they were children!"

"These stones, Annie, belonged to a king, a man who had forgotten all hope. They had lain forgotten many years before your father and I arrived. He gave them to us as a token, a remembrance of his land that was soon to be lost."

The words pulled at Peter's memory, and he thought he heard a shrill voice shrieking, "_Lost . . ._ _lost!"_ He shook his head in irritation and the voice vanished. He never head it again.

"They are the only relics of the king's land that remain," Will continued. "After the battle between the Light and the Dark, after your father cut the mistletoe from the tree, he forgot what the stone meant. But he didn't truly forget its importance, for he gave it to your mother, the girl who had spoken with the Lady of the Light. I've kept the second one safe for years.'

Peter reached out and delicately picked on of the stones from Will's hand. Despite the cold air, it felt warm to the touch. "What do they do?"

A grin quirked around Will's mouth. "Nothing," he shrugged.

Annie's face fell. "Oh," she muttered.

Will laughed. "Nothing is without significance in this world. Or, for that matter, in any other. If your father and I were given these stones to carry away from the Lost Land, it was done so for a reason. What that reason is I don't know. But I'm willing to bet that you two will discover it."

"Oh," Annie brightened.

"But I won't have you two losing them. So come. There's someplace we need to go."

Peter's eyes widened as the air just beyond the balcony railing began to ripple and shimmer. Slowly, two great wooden doors materialized before them, floating in the air above the Davies' front yard.

Will leaped lightly atop the balcony railing, balancing effortlessly. His billowing cloak snapped in the risng wind. He turned back to smile broadly at the two children who were watching him in amazement. "Come on," he repeated, holding out his hands once again. Peter and Annie each grasped one and scrambled clumsily up on the railing next to Will. Peter swayed. For one sickening second he thought he was going to tumble down into the snow-covered lavender bush that seemed to be miles below him. But Will's hand tightened on his, and he righted himself with some little effort.

The great doors silently swung open, revealing a hole of darkness in the winter air.

"It's easy now," Will said cheerfully. "Just step forward through the doors, and we'll be where we need to go.

Behind Will's back, Peter and Annie exchanged terrified glances.

But Will had already taken a giant stride off the railing. Before they could even scream, Peter and Annie had stumbled behind him and fell clumsily through the doors.

There was no stomach-dropping fall that Peter had expected. Instead, it simply felt that he tripped forward into . . . someplace else. He fell forward and felt the impact of a wooden floor beneath his hands and knees. "Ouch," he muttered, rubbing his left knee absently. He looked up.

They were in his father's jewelry shop. All the lights were off, and the moonlight slanting in through the front window glinted off glass and silver and transformed the familiar room into a place of intrigue and mystery.

Annie was gazing around herself with stunned eyes. She was reeling a bit. "Whoa . . ." she breathed. "Cool."

"Easy there, Keanu," Peter said absently, still trying to orient himself. She made a grotesque face in his direction.

Will was striding around the shop, cloak billowing behind him, peering curiously into one case after another. His steps were long and elastic. He moved with the graceful ease of a young boy, not the self-contained stiffness of the academic.

"Ah, here we go," Will murmured to himself, bending over a case near the back of the room. "Come here, you two," he beckoned.

Peter and Annie approached. Will stepped back so that they could look into the case. "Bran really does do a remarkable job with these things, doesn't he?" He said, his voice rich with admiration.

Two of Bran Davies' pieces lay nestled inside the glass box upon royal blue velvet. One was a necklace, composed of silver links that twisted in and about one another. The pattern was random, and there were delicate engravings on the heavy links. The other piece was a silver arm band, encrusted with jade and moonstone. The band itself wasn't solid, but made of filigree metalwork in the shapes of flowers and leaves.

"Well," Will said, rolling up the sleeve on his right arm. "The Dark once used its powers to pilfer something infinitely more valuable from the British Museum, so there shouldn't be any problem getting these out. The only difficulty will be explaining to your father just where two of his most valuable pieces disappeared to without a trace." He closed his eyes and laid his right hand upon the glass. His lips muttered a few soundless words, and all expression melted from his face. Slowly, ever so slowly, his hand reached through the glass. Peter stared. It was so odd to see one solid material pass unscathed through other solid material.

_Although_, some detached, rational part of his mind commented, _it's not really solid at all, but empty space sparsely populated with distant nuclei and protons and electrons. If Will could somehow line up his atoms so that . . ._

_Oh, shut up._

Will had removed his hand by now and had a firm grasp on the necklace and armband. He held out an open palm. Wordlessly, Peter and Annie gave him their stones. He then turned and walked towards Bran Davies small forge at the back of the store.

Annie trotted after him. "Do you . . . do you know how to work with silver, Will?" she asked doubtfully.

Will shot her a look of proud scorn. "Of course I do. Whose father was it, after all, who taught yours everything he knew?"

It took Will several hours to engraft the stones onto the necklace and armband. Exhausted, Peter found himself succumbing to drowsiness while they waited. Soon he was sitting against the wall, snoring softly, Annie's dark head cradled in his lap.

Peter woke as Will slipped the silver necklace over his head and he felt the additional heavy weight of it settle against his chest. Will had worked an extra silver link into the chain from which the blue-green stone hung. He then took Annie's wrist and rolled up her pyjama's sleeve. Gently, he took the band and slid it up the yawning girl's arm until it came to rest just above her elbow. The blue-green stone flashed from the center of the largest flower of the design. Will stood back and surveyed the two children with satisfaction.

"Very good," he murmured. "The combination of my protection, the Lost Land's material, and the Pendragon's workmanship should be sufficient defense against anything we may meet."

_Anything?_ Peter wondered. _What is he expecting?_

"Do you like them?" Will asked.

"Very much," Annie responded politely, but with an uncertain note in her voice. "But . . ."

"Yes?"

"What about Mum and Da?" she burst out. "Won't they be worried when they wake and find us gone? And we really shouldn't take Da's work. He put a lot of time into these, you know."

Will grinned. "First of all, your father would want you to have these pieces. As long as you're wearing them, you carry his love and protection with you wherever you go. You may need that. Second of all: where do you think you're going? As soon as I can manage it, you two are going back to bed, where you belong."

"But . . ." Peter stammered in confusion. "Shouldn't we be doing something? We can't just wait, can we?"

"Yes, we can, Peter. And that is just what we're going to do."

Doubt crept across Annie's face. "You – you _do_ have a plan, Will, don't you?" she asked archly.

"Well, no, not really. Why, do you?"

Annie looked uncomfortable and shook her head, mouthing a silent 'no.'

"Well, then," Will said cheerfully. "At least we're all on the same page. I say that's a pretty good start."

"Oh, that's brilliant," Peter huffed in indignation. "After all this you're telling us we're going back to _bed_?!"

"Trust me, Peter. When the right time comes, we'll do something." The merriment faded from Will's face, and he looked from one child to another irresolutely. He spoke slowly: "That said, there's one thing that I want you two to remember."

"What's that, Will?" Annie asked somewhat impatiently.

Will raised his eyebrows. "Always know that in this quest shall harm you. It is the Law of the High Magic that the Dark is not permitted to hurt human beings." Will's voice was confident, but Peter detected uncertainty hovering about his eyes.

"Is that true, Will?" he asked sharply.

"Yes," he replied firmly. "The Dark cannot hurt you. But . . . it can make you harm yourself. It can get inside you, make you think . . . well, boogey-man thoughts." Will shot Peter a swift glance. "And nothing can stop another human being from hurting you, indirectly influenced by the Dark within them." A bitter grin twisted Will's lips. "Nothing prevented Muscharch from dropping that bomb, or the President from dropping the second and third."

Peter was silent. For the first time he realized the magnitude of what was being asked of him and his sister. Deep inside him, the new self that had awoken during Will's song stretched and unfurled further. It wasn't bravery, nor was it resignation he felt. There was simply the awareness of imminent motion, the tense expectation of a runner before a race. He reached under his robe and fingered the blue-green stone at his breast, gazing thoughtfully at his father's friend.

"Here," Will said. "There's something else we should take." He walked over to another case and with the same uncanny smoothness reached through the glass and retrieved two more objects. They were identical silver daggers. "Take these. And keep them safely on you at all time."

"Will," Peter began, casting a disapproving glance at his sister, who was staring avidly with parted lips at the blades. "I don't think – "

His protest was quelled by the snapping fury he saw in her icy blue glare.

"Uh, never mind."

Will smiled. "Don't worry, Peter. These daggers belong now to the Light. They can be used to harm nothing but the Dark. If you tried to cut yourself with them, you'd find that the blade would rebound and refuse to enter the flesh. And if you keep them in these," Will removed two leather sheaths from an invisible pocket on his cloak, "they should be safe enough."

Peter was all astonishment. Wordlessly, he took a dagger in his left hand and a sheath in his right. A leather strap hung from the sheath, and he realized that it was meant to be worn about the neck. A circle quartered by a cross was stitched into the leather with a thread of a slightly darker shade. Annie also took a dagger and a sheath.

There was a rippling of distant music. Peter's head shot up frantically, searching for its source. He saw nothing. But as he looked wildly about him, the same great doors formed themselves again in the middle of his father's jewelry shop.

"Now then," Will said, rubbing his hands together. "I think I remember saying something about getting you two to bed."


	11. Chapter Nine and a Half

**A/N**: I'm cheating a bit, this isn't a real chapter. I was going to begin the next chapter with it, but then I realized that it really belonged at the end of Chapter Nine. So here is Chapter Nine and a Half. Oh, and the quote below has absolutely nothing to do with the story for once. But I loved _Garden State_ and I figured I'd do some shameless advertising to get people out there to see it : ). I think it was the best movie I've seen all year. If you're twenty-something, away from home, and wishing for a significant other, you have to see this movie.

Reviewer Reponses are below.

Standard Disclaimers apply. _The Dark is Rising_ sequence and its characters belong to Susan Cooper.

**CHAPTER NINE AND A HALF**

"This is your one opportunity to do something that no one has ever done before and that no one will copy throughout human existence. And if nothing else, you will be remembered as the one guy who ever did this. This one thing."

Natalie Portman as Sam, _Garden State_

Will Stanton and the Davies children tumbled from the Doors and landed once more upon the icy rooftop balcony. Except now, instead of a starry winter sky, they were confronted with a mounting wind and wispy clouds that scudded swiftly across the moon. Peter raised his hands and lowered his hood cautiously, letting the wind pull and snap at his hair. Its briskness whipped color into Annie's cheeks.

"Hurry now," Will Stanton said sharply, his dark gaze sweeping the night sky. "There's a storm rising."

He flipped the latch and opened the roof door with a flourish. He took the children each by a hand and hauled them through the hole. The quickly crossed the attic floor and stumbled down the narrow staircase, Peter and Annie following in a daze, sheathed daggers swinging to and fro from the cords draped over their necks. Will dragged them through the staircase door and the found themselves once more in front of their bedrooms.

Will released their hands abruptly. "Now," he said briskly, without a trace of boyishness remaining in his voice, "there's just one more thing we must discuss briefly."

Peter swayed and steadied himself against the wall. "What's that?" he yawned, secretly longing for his pillows and comforter. He hadn't slept well the night before, and the rush of excitement that had sustained him since Will first shook him awake was beginning to ebb. Annie apparently felt the same way, for she leaned against her brother and indulged in a yawn that reminded Peter of the MGM lion.

Will's gaze went distant and he fumbled with the collar of his cloak. Although the man's face was serious, Peter realized that it wasn't the solemnity of an Old One that gripped Will. This was plain human uncertainty and apprehension, and had nothing to do with the cares and concerns of the Watchman's role.

"Um, I'd like to request that you two say nothing of this night to either of your parents."

"Whyever not?" Peter asked sleepily. "I mean, you said they helped you last time, right? They may not remember, but does that really mean they can do nothing now?"

Will tapped his fingers slowly against the wall. _One two three_. _One two three_. "I'm afraid it does, Peter. Before, there were certain . . . prerequisites . . . that now no longer exist. Things change."

"That doesn't seem fair," Annie said cautiously. "I'm sure Mum and Dad would want to be involved."

"Fair has nothing to do with it," Will snapped. The girl jumped. "This is no choice of mine. It was your father's decision, and it must be respected at all times, as well as obeyed. There is to be no more discussion on this subject. You two must promise me you'll say nothing."

Peter and Annie stared. There was something in Will's voice besides the obvious anger and impatience. Even as Peter saw a tear glimmer in the corner of Will's eye, he didn't know what the mysterious emotion was. But who could expect a fourteen-year-old boy to understand desolation?

"Fine, Will," he said after a nervous pause. "We won't say anything. Promise. Right, Annie?"

"Right," she nodded quickly, watching Will warily.

Will's tense shoulders relaxed, and he released a great breath of air. They were treated once more to that boyish grin, which transformed their father's friend into someone ageless and young all at once. The tear had vanished. "Thank you," he said lightly, as if he were merely thanking them for fetching him a glass of water. "And it would be better if we didn't talk about this amongst ourselves, not yet at least, for fear of being overheard. Say nothing unless I speak to you first. I'm sure you understand?"

The children nodded. They weren't about to question Will again.

"Good. Now then, in you go." The bedroom doors whisked open noiselessly, ghostly hands flinging them back with a flourish. They banged and rebounded against the wall, shuddering. An invisible breeze came from nowhere and whipped the midnight blue cloaks right off the children's backs, letting them fly into Will Stanton's outstretched hand. Peter and Annie, their arms and legs flailing in surprise, were pushed back into their respective rooms.

"Hey!" Peter gasped in indignation.

But resistance was futile. Peter's bedspread whisked itself open, and he found himself bundled into bed and nestled down between the sheets. He stared in helpless amazement as the door slowly shut upon him. The words, "Good night, my children," drifted through the small crack in the door just before it closed shut with a small click of finality.

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

_CPAnthoni_: Thanks, I love new reviewers. I think you reviewed pretty much right after I updated, I was thrilled! Thank you thank you thank you!

_Frostfyre7_: Thanks! You're my twentieth review! I know some people have hundreds of reviews, but, for me, reaching 20 was a pretty big deal. Such a nice, round number. Thanks!

_Silvergenji_: I love reviews from other TDIR writers, thanks so much! I've neglected reviewing your story, but I'm getting there!

_Lembas7_: Action action action! I agree with you, and I'm working on it. See A/N for next chapter.

_Svufreak_: Another new reviewer! Thanks!

_Venus Smurf_: Woohoo! Thanks so much for your review! It was really exciting because it had been weeks since I updated, and really got me focused on getting this next bit up. Thanks!


	12. Prologue II

**A/N**: I've had an incredibly difficult time writing this next section of the story. I knew where I needed to go, but just couldn't figure out how to get there. I think I rewrote what happens after the night on the balcony about four times. Finally, I gave up and decided to break what was going to be one huge mammoth chapter into numerous pieces, two of which I'm posting today. I've called this "Prologue II" because nothing really happens here. We're about halfway through the story, but there's going to be some radical shifts in tone, temporal geography, and characters in the second half, and I figured this was a good time to do a second "mini-prologue." Things after this are going to be pretty much all plot, which I'm excited about, because the one thing I've wanted to add more of in this story is action. It's coming, hold on! This story is about to go into kick-ass gear, and I'm really excited about it. Expect another few weeks before the next update however. School is crazy and insane and there's just so much to do. Plus, the next chapter I post is going to be huge, both in scope and length, and I want it to be perfect. Sorry for the wait, I'm writing as often as I can!

Standard Disclaimers apply: The Dark is Rising sequence and all its characters belong to Susan Cooper.

**PROLOGUE II**

"There is no ideal Christmas; only the one Christmas you decide to make as a reflection of your values, desires, affections, traditions."

Bill McKibbon

Days passed, slow and lazy like spiced molasses. Outside the Davies home, snow drifted from the grey sky and piled upon evergreen branches until they curved heavily towards the white ground. During the night, great icicles grew slowly from the eaves and were knocked down with a clatter when the front door opened the following morning. Inside, a fire blazed and embroidered stockings were hung over a hearth. Christmas music played cheerfully from a CD player. The scrumptious odor of peppermint and cinnamon was everywhere. And Will Stanton said nothing of the incredible quest he had imposed upon the Davies children.

Or at least Peter supposed it was a quest he was on. He could think of no other name for it during the empty days that he sat before the snapping fire, trying in vain to finish his holiday homework. "Mission" seemed too sterile, too prosaic. Missions required maps and guns and super spy gadgets, not supernatural stones and immortal allies. There was a distinct difference.

The only problem was that Peter's own immortal ally remained cryptically silent on the subject of quests. He merely smiled in a friendly professorial manner and teased the children about expected Christmas gifts, as any good-natured uncle would. Peter found such behavior absolutely infuriating. And Annie, who had been expecting extraordinary things such as flying and swordfights and dragons – ("Well, why not dragons, Peter? What's wrong with having dragons?") – grew fretful and impatient. She would sit for hours in an armchair, her eyes glued to the white pages of a book, and not turn a single leaf. When she would finally stand up with a sigh, the skin around her fingernails would be more ragged than usual, and her eyes seemed a little brighter than they should be.

Meanwhle, the Davies and their visitor did all the normal holiday things. They visited the frozen waterfall, went shopping downtown, and agonized over what Christmas tree to get from the local farm. Bran Davies even convinced a reluctant Will Stanton to try the local ski slopes. "Don't tell me you're scared, Stanton," he had joked when Will had first demurred. "I mean, if the academic life has made you soft . . . well, we'll understand. But we will laugh at you."

Will had glowered at his friend. "Scared am I, Davies? I wouldn't say such things if I were you. Unless, of course, you think Peter and Annie would be interested in that youthful indiscretion involving . . . oh, what was it . . . guacamole? Oh, and the squirrel. Let's never forget that poor, unfortunate squirrel."

Bran had laughed, and Jane had choked on her hot chocolate, ruining her favorite white sweater. Peter and Annie begged to be let in on the joke, but their father insisted that the decision to divulge such secrets rested solely upon the discretion of the Heroically Fearless Literature Professor, who boldly went where no participle had gone before. But did he really think that such dastardly measures were necessary? Will, sufficiently placated, chuckled and remained smugly silent.

Bu the holiday's tranquility brought no peace. Even Annie's giggles as she watched Will windmill down the bunny hill contained an emptiness that couldn't be filled. The fireplace's crackling roar couldn't illuminate its darknesses. The most well-loved carols could overcome its silences. Peter, watching how Christmas lights cast a rosy radiance upon snowy tree branches, would be reminded only of other fires, still burning on the world's farther side.

For the nightly news remained grim. Every day, Muscharch's cried of vengeance for all the ancient wrongs visited upon Yeria grew more and more desperate. Sindal and the American President said they would destroy Yeria completely if Muscharch so much as hinted at throwing a burning match in their direction. The death toll from the bombing mounted, as those injured died from their wounds or from radiation poisoning. And there were rumors of vile things, of atrocities committed by the survivors – both Sindalian and Yerian – that defied description.

And Will Stanton said nothing.

Peter swung between despair and exuberance. Sometimes, he felt like the ship had sunk and he was floundering alone in the freezing night waters, waiting to drown. Other ties, he would see the quiet sternness that came over Will Stanton's feature in moments of solitude, and he would believe that anything was possible. The morning after Will had shown them a choking oily darkness, Peter had woken with an incredible word on his tongue, one which had danced through his dreams all night long.

_Magic_.

Will hadn't spoken it. And neither Peter nor Annie had asked him to name it. Nevertheless, the word followed Peter everywhere.

He would be doing the most tedious of tasks, like brushing his teeth. Suddenly, his head would whirl. He'd grow dizzy and balance himself against whatever flat surface was conveniently nearby. Was it really possible? Could glamorous things such as magic and immortals really exist in the same universe where he could feel the mundane roughness of wool sweaters against his arms and the furry taste of morning breath in his mouth?

They could. And they did. It was enough to make a guy crazy.

Only the upcoming Wraithfell Ceremony, a Christmas Eve tradition, promised any relief from the almost unbearable tension. As it approached, Annie's own restlessness dissipated and morphed into something much more practical.

Nerves.

Miss Annie Davies was the evening's featured singer, and her excitement and anticipation made her forget everything else, even dragons. Peter would lounge for hours upon the staircase and listed as she practiced, the singing interrupted only by her eager demands for criticism and praise. Oftentimes, Will joined them. The Old One would sit majestically in the red stuffed armchair and listen as the girl warbled away, a thoughtful expression on his plain features. Peter didn't know why he came, but it was nice to have even silent company during these impromptu rehearsals. Normally, he would have found Annie's incessant demands on his attention somewhat irksome. But his sister had real talent, as well as the imagination needed to make such a talent meaningful. Peter found it pleasant to lean back, close his eyes, feel the fire's warmth on his toes, and let her young voice dance dreamily in the back of his mind. He discovered that he was looking forward to the Ceremony almost as much as she was.

And so the days passed, slow and lazy like spiced molasses. The town of Wriathfell, crouched among snow-covered hills, slumbered under the winter sky and softly waited for Christmas Eve to come. Outside, the world strained and writhed under an unbearable pressure. Unease spread over the globe. Everywhere, there were people who felt something whisper within them, something invisible that stirred in response to an unheard call. Its coldness and darkness scared them, and they snapped at loved ones and began to ponder things which should have been unthinkable. Inside, a black-haired, blue-eyed girl practiced her song before her quiet older brother, who carried sadness around his shoulders like a blanket. And a man with blue-grey eyes and a face neither old nor young, who looked on the world and saw shadows everywhere, watched quietly over them both.


	13. Chapter Ten

**A/N:** Sorry for the long wait, and sorry again for another short chapter. I've finished the whole thing, but it was twelve pages, so in an effort to keep chapter lengths somewhat consistent, I picked a cut-off point and am only posting the first third. The next chapter will be up soon, probably next Sunday, when I have the time to sit down again and type it in on a school computer. That whole internet access thing still isn't working for my laptop.

_Standard Disclaimers_: Will Stanton, _The Dark is Rising_, and all associated characters belong solely to Susan Cooper. I can only hope that some day I'll be half as creative.

Reader Review Responses below

**Chapter Ten**

"So does a whole world, with all its greatnesses and littlenesses, lie in a twinkling star. And as mere human knowledge can split a ray of light and analyse the manner of its composition, so, sublimer intelligences may read in the feeble shining of this earth of ours, every thought and act, every vice and virtue, of every responsible creature on it."

Charles Dickens, _A Tale of Two Cities_.

There was a new moon, ideal for star-gazing, and Peter's gaze drifted carelessly over the sharp angles of Orion's massive shoulders. He had always felt somewhat ambivalent towards the stars. Sometimes he imagined that he was microscopic, as tiny as the quarks and neutrinos his science teacher Mr. Goldman loved to talk about. The universe would expand into a limitless wonderland, where everything was possible and something always new. Eyes closed, he would pretend that he could feel the rushing madness of Earth's headlong flight through space. That was a good feeling.

But sometimes he imagined that he was huge, more massive than the largest galaxy. And then all those tiny pinpoints of light began to look mighty puny in their pathetic attempt to illuminate infinity. That's it? His mind would wonder. And that was a bad feeling.

_It's all_, he mused as trudged alongside his family and Will Stanton, _a mere matter of perspective_. And he thought he was quite wise to have discovered this.

It was Christmas Eve, night of the Wraithfell Ceremony. The snow that had been falling for days had stopped just before sunset, and a rumbling fleet of snowplows had emerged hastily to clear the roads before evening. Parking at the church had been tight, and they had been forced to go some way down the street to find an empty spot. Salt crystals crunched under Peter's booted feet, and Bran carried Annie in his arms so she would not sully her thin white slippers. The sidewalk's packed snow was iridescent under the orange streetlamps, and the slight breeze caused the evergreen branches to groan and dump their snowy loads in massive clumps that slid slowly to the ground. Christmas trees glowed in the windows of the dark houses they passed by.

Will Stanton noticed where Peter's eyes were wandering. "What do you see up there in the stars, Peter?" he asked casually. His voice was muffled by the colorful scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face.

"Monsters!" Annie giggled from over Bran's shoulder. She swung her head so that the poofy balls of yarn hanging from her hat thumped against her shoulders. "And animals and fairies!" She placed her hands against Bran's shoulders and pushed herself back so she could grin into his face. She pulled his hat down over his eyes. "What do you see, Da?"

He laughed and pushed that hat back up. "Judgment," he said with mock severity. "Judgment for little girls who aren't nice to their daddies." He flicked a finger at her nose, she screeched happily, and a minor scuffle ensued.

Jane's voice was silver in the night. "That's Will Stanton for you. Always asking the unanswerable questions and getting people into arguments."

"Debates, my dear, they're debates," Will chuckled. He arched an eyebrow at Peter, who grinned back. "So how 'bout it, Peter?" he whispered. "What do you think is up there?"

Peter remembered the oozing blackness that Will had shown them from the Davies' balcony. _Life. Death. Infinity. Endings. Beginnings_. "Well, uh . . . nothing much, I guess. Just the stars."

They had reached the church, and Peter studied the massive stone building as they walked up the broad, shallow steps. Shards of light exploded from the stained-glass windows, splintering the night. The brilliant spire ripped up into the winter sky, a needle of fire poised to pierce a cloth of black velvet. The effect was beautiful and wondrous, but something about it made him uneasy.

Inside, laughing people thronged the vestibule, and the building's echoing immensity magnified each sound tenfold. Girls giggled nervously in groups, while boys fidgeted awkwardly in prickly suits and ties. Parents fussily slicked down errant hair and rearranged already perfect clothes. Slow and stately organ music drifted through the air. Candles flickered in the windows. Everything was gold and crimson, as the warm light set fire to the red pew cushions.

Annie was hopping from one foot to another in barely contained excitement. "I'd better go, Mum," she said with self-important enthusiasm. "Ms. Evans is waving me over." She pointed to the beckoning chorus teacher.

"Not quite yet," Jane demanded as her fingers smoothed the black hair falling over Annie's shoulders. She adjusted the red ribbon in her daughter's hair and tugged the white dress into place. Having finished, she leaned back and looked at her daughter critically. "There now, you look perfect."

"Really?"

"Really really, silly goose."

Annie grinned in delight and scampered off through the crowd to join Ms. Evans.

"Well, then," Jane said, her voice sounding strangely choked. She was blinking quickly. "There she goes."

"Don't fret so, Jenny." Bran slung an arm over her shoulders and spoke bluntly. He was wearing a black suit, tie, and shirt. The contrast with his white hair made people stare, and Peter was secretly pleased at the attention his father unconsciously demanded. "She'll do just fine."

"Oh, no doubt about that. She's worked so hard. It's just . . . well, look at her Bran!"

Peter looked. Annie was talking animatedly with Ms. Evans, who was laughing at something the girl had said. His sister's hands were flying and her face lively and eager. A glow of excitement lit her features like a sun.

Will Stanton was wearing one of his inscrutable looks again. "She fearless, that's all," he said vacantly. "I'm sure we'll see her gracing the New York stages one of these days soon."

"Nonsense." Jane pulled on her ponytail and wrapped an arm about her husband's waist. She reached up to pull the dark sunglasses from his face. She tucked them in her purse and gave Bran and laughing, disapproving look. "She's my little girl, and no one's taking her away from me yet."

"Hey, I see the programs over there by the door," Peter interrupted. "I'll go get some."

"All right, Peter," Bran said, ruefully rubbing his hair and looking abashed at his wife. "We'll go grab some seats before they're all taken. Meet us inside."

"Sure thing. I'll be right back."

Between Peter and the programs were scores of happily chatting people. He shouldered his way through the crowd, mumbling pardons and excuses as he went. Everyone was close and jammed pack together, and he was beginning to sweat under his heavy suit jacket. The smell of vanilla was everywhere. He saw Mrs. Reynolds from across the vestibule and waved to her cheerfully. The old woman grinned in return and winked in his direction.

A stout lady in pink appeared out of nowhere. Peter accidentally jostled her hard. He turned in consternation. "I'm so sorry, ma'am," he apologized, back-pedalling in the direction of the program table.

"Now, don't get your underpants all tied up in knots over it, young man," she said with dismissive dignity. "'Tis the season for forgiveness." She turned back to a pudgy boy dressed in a powder blue suit who must have been her grandson.

Peter laughed and continued moving backwards. He felt himself stumble and awkwardly collide with someone massive. His feet blundered and his arms flailed as he tried to maintain his balance. He succeeded, barely, and turned with a smile to placate yet another bruised individual with his hasty apologies.

Richard C. Winslow, Esq. loomed above him, clad in an exquisitely expensive suit. He looked down upon Peter with an inscrutable expression on his face.

The apology choked in Peter's throat. He opened his mouth, but even the slightest gurgle emerged. An anvil dropped heavily into his stomach and store through his guts. He looked at Stan's father with all the dislike he could muster, anticipating a verbal flaying or – at the very least – the evil eye.

_Oh, Will, where are you?_

But Winslow only stared wordlessly at the silent boy standing before him. An expression of polite confusion played over his features. "May I help you?" he finally asked courteously.

Peter's jaw dropped. "Uh, no. I'm sorry, I was just getting programs, and – and . . . didn't watch where I was going. Clumsy, I was, and – "

"Fine," Winslow interrupted him neatly. He shrugged his large shoulders and turned back to join his group's conversation. "Oh, I forgot." He turned back around and fixed Peter with his light blue eyes. "Merry Christmas, kid."

Peter couldn't move. His feet were welded to the floor, his eyes wide with shock. Winslow was engrossed with his conversation once again, completely oblivious of his very existence.

Peter couldn't help eavesdropping.

"Now, look here, Dick," a shorter man was saying emphatically. Peter recognized his ruddy face from election advertisements. He was a city councilman. Cianconne, that was his name. His voice was slightly slurred, and the sharp odor of brandy was in the air. "No one has all the answers. But I'll say what I think and I'm not ashamed of doing so. I think the President should send our boys in their fighter jets and have them bomb that bastard Muscharch to the very gates of hell itself. And bomb 'em again, if we have to. Nuke the whole damn region, before they destroy us all."

"That's a very interesting theory, Ryan," Winslow replied mildly. "But hardly one that would be effective, I think. At least not in the long run. What good would it do to ruin a whole country to get one man? Instead of a single enemy, we'd have thousands. It's simply not practicable."

"What good would it do? You can't be serious. It'll stop Muscharch from nuking us, that's what it'll do. I tell you, Dick, that man is evil. He deserves what he's getting at our hands. He deserves to burn as he made those Sindalians burn."

"That he may." Winslow stroked his chin. "But I think you're overlooking the point, Ryan, that while he most definitely deserves what you say he does, his country does not. Besides, do . . . do you really think President Muscharch is an evil man?"

Peter stared, incredulous. Winslow sounded almost . . . wistful.

"That I do," Cianconne said firmly, viciously. "As evil as they come, as evil as the serpent in the Garden of Eden. A scourge to freedom and liberty everywhere, that's what he is. No doubt about it."

One side of Winslow's mouth went up in a derisive smirk. "But he's only a man, Ryan. Do you really believe any mere man is capable of pure evil?"

"Surely you don't mean that Muscharch was justified in using those bombs, do you, Dick?

Peter saw the muscles in Winslow's back stiffen. The free hand that was not holding his jacket clenched into a fist. "No, I don't," he spat. "It was despicable. The kind of act that makes me want to puke. I wish Muscharch would die. He deserves to die, after everything he's done."

"Then I don't see what your whole point about 'being only a man' is all about." Cianconne shrugged and turned away.

Peter's frozen limbs melted into life again, and he began to inch away. After a few steps, he turned and bolted. The crowd had thinned as people took their seats, and he reached the program table without difficulty. He picked up four pamphlets of pale blue embossed with silver lettering. They shook in his hands. He couldn't hold them, so he let them fall and followed them weakly to the floor.

_This is silly_, he thought fiercely, pulling his knees up and leaning his back against a pillar. He could feel the stone's welcoming coldness even through his jacket. _Winslow's a monster all right, but did you really think he would reach out his claws and gobble you up in the middle of a church? In front of a councilman? Pull yourself together, man_.

His hands began to shake harder.

_But that's not really it, is it? You wouldn't be trembling like this if it was just Winslow you had to worry about. Here's the real problem, the thing that's driving you mad: he had no fucking clue who you were._

Peter rubbed his forehead against his knees and fisted his hands in his hair, the strands wrapped around his fingers like wire. He bit the inside of his cheek hard, hoping the pain would clear his mind. _Did you see his eyes when he looked at you? Completely blank. No anger, no recognition. Nothing. As far as he was concerned, he's never seen you before._

_But wait, there's more. Why would Stan's dad be so . . . _intense_ about Muscharch?_

Peter shook his head, unable to make any sense of the conversation he had just heard. For a while Winslow had sounded as if he was almost defending the bloodthirsty President. The next minute he had been spitting words against the man like they were bullets. And there had been more than simple disapprobation in Winslow's voice. There had been hatred: a deep, personal sort of hatred. The hatred reserved for someone who deprived you of love and comfort and home, of all you held dear, and yet left you with bitter life so you could rue everything you had lost.

The lights began to flicker. Peter looked up and realized that the vestibule was almost empty. Everyone had taken their seats. He clenched the programs to his chest and scrambled to his feet. His legs felt a little unsteady, but he guessed he'd be all right. He needed to find his family.

/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/

_norah-hunt_: Glad to see you back! Your English teacher sounds divine. Here's the important question: is he single and perhaps under forty? Eagerly awaiting your next update!

_silvergenji_: The big important magical stuff is coming up next chapter. Oh, yes, and it will get much worse. Mwa ha ha! Hope the moving is going well.

_CPAnthoni_: Wow, thanks! Authoress blushes. The squirrel and guacamole episode will come up later, but not in this story, and not for a long time. I'm shameless and am dangling it in front of you so you'll keep reading : ). I agree with you on the danger of lyrical language, I'm trying to cut from my writing as many evil adverbs as I can. As for Bran's choice: do you think it really matters to Will? I'm sure as an Old One he knew what it would mean.

_svufreak_: Glad you like the descriptions. I worried about posting such a chapter, but I'm glad you appreciated it!

_Eirias2_: Right now : ). But mostly in the next chapter. Promise.

_lol_: Thanks! I really liked it too, which is weird because I wrote it completely last minute once I decided to break up the chapter. It's nice when inspiration strikes randomly in that fashion. : ).

_Venus Smurf_: Authoress laughs. Wow, thanks for the amazing reviews! I must confess that I thrive on praise – yes, selfish and arrogant, I know – and your reviews always make me anxious to get back to the computer to write more. Thanks for the inspiration!


	14. Chapter Eleven

**A/N**: Ok, I've been promising a long chapter for some time, and here it is. Phew, my fingers are tired from all that typing. There are probably tons of typos, I'm sorry, I'm too tired to fix them. Now, I've never written any mystery before, so I struggled with this chapter trying to decide what to hint at, what to explain, what to leave out, etc. If you want to review this chapter, could you help me out? If there's something that's simply so unexplained that it makes you want to stop reading, let me know and I'll try to address it soon. Likewise, I'm really curious to get everyone's feedback on where they think the plot is going. It'll help me a lot in shaping the story. Also let me know if there's something I should have taken out. This chapter got really long on me. I tried to keep it short, but it just didn't work.

_Standard Disclaimers Apply_: Will Stanton and _The Dark is Rising_ series belong to Susan Cooper.

_Non-Standard Disclaimers_: The _Santa Lucia/Queen of Lights_ carol is an actual ceremony performed mostly in Sweden. However, it was also done in my middle school, so it can be found in America too. I've changed some things around though. For instance, it is usually done on December 13th, not Christmas Eve. What can I say? I moved it for dramatic effect. Boys usually have a role, too, but I jettisoned them without cause. Sheer laziness. Also, the lyrics here are a compilation of ones I found online and the ones I remember singing myself (in the chorus, of course . . . I am singularly atrocious when it comes to singing, which is perhaps why I wanted to make Annie so divinely good at it). Bottom line, the words are substantially, but not completely, accurate. I've just moved things around a bit to make it flow better. Enjoy : ).

Reader Review Reponses Below . . . Far, far below . . .

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

"It's time the long arm of the law put a few more in the ground  
Send 'em all to their maker and he'll set 'em down  
You can bet he'll set 'em down  
'Cause Justice is the one thing you should always find  
You got to saddle up your boys  
You got to draw a hard line  
When the gun smoke settles we'll sing a victory tune  
And we'll all meet back at the local saloon.  
And we'll raise up our glasses against evil forces singing  
whiskey for my men, beer for my horses  
Singing whiskey for my men, and beer for my horses"

Toby Keith and Willie Nelson, "Beer for My Horses."

They were seated halfway down the center aisle, just on the right edge. There was a place saved for him between his father and Will. Peter awkwardly squeezed in past Will's knees and collapsed upon the thinly cushioned wood.

"What took you so long, Peter?" His mother leaned around to peer at him. "We were starting to worry."

Peter fell back upon the tried-and-true excused for delinquents everywhere. "I had to go to the bathroom. There was a line."

A tiny frown appeared between Jane's eyebrows. She knew her son. "Are you feeling sick? Your face looks a little flushed."

Peter wiped at his brow. It felt damp. He tried to speak with casual unconcern. "Naw, I'm fine. Here are the programs. Annie's on page four. The picture came out real good."

"You sure you're okay? If you're not, we could – "

"I said I'm fine!" he snapped.

Jane's eyebrows raised and her lips made a tiny 'o' shape. Bran shot his son a warning look: _Watch your tongue, bach_. Peter sunk down into the pew sullenly. Will turned and looked at him dispassionately. Peter met the Old One's eyes for a split second and then looked away.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, shame making his ears burn.

There was just a second of hesitation. "Hey, forget it." Jane reached her arm behind Bran and ruffled her son's hair. "The concert's about to start. Let's enjoy the evening."

"All right."

The lights dimmed. Peter squirmed and tried to make himself comfortable, unaccustomed as he was to the hard wood of the pews. The Davies weren't church-goers by any stretch of the imagination. His father didn't like it, and his mother preferred spending Sunday mornings dressed in her bathrobe worrying over her latest article. Still, the Ceremony was more school concert than religious ritual, and they always made Christmas Eve an unprincipled exception to their heathenish habits.

Ms. Evans walked onto the illuminated stage. "Friends and family, citizens of Wraithfell, let me welcome you to one of our town's oldest and most honored traditions: the Christmas Ceremony. For over one hundred years this night has been dedicated to the music and joy out children bring us during the holiday season. For a hundred years we have come together in this place on this night, to celebrate the return of the light."

There was a small splattering of polite applause.

"And at no other time have we been in such need of such a night as this year, when war threatens and thousands upon thousands of innocents have perished in the past days. Let us take this time to reflect upon our blessings and remember those who have passed away in the past week."

There was perfect silence, except for a few elder women who sniffled piteously.

"Thank you, everyone," Ms. Evans said, her voice switching smoothly from solemn doom-and-gloom to holiday cheer. "And now, without further ado, please join me in appreciation of the feast of musical talent that we will be presented with tonight."

Ms. Evans took her seat at the piano with a flourish. She made a small beckoning motion with her hand, and the fifth grade chorus tripped on stage and filled the risers. They proceeded to warble their way through _Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer_, _Up on The Housetop_, and _Silent Night_. Peter clapped enthusiastically along with the rest of the audience when the performance was completed. It hadn't been astounding, but was that ever the point?

The high school chorus was next. They opened with _Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer_. The music, however, was secondary to the performance of homecoming king Gregory Smith, who, decked out in complete Grandma-drag (silver wig and all), had shrieked girlishly and tried in vain to escape Heather Blythe's ferociously homicidal reindeer. The audience hooted with laughter. Then there was a quietly beautiful staccato version of _Do You Hear What I Hear?_, followed by a thunderingly mighty rendition of _Good King Wenceslas_. At the end Will cheered and whistled louder than anyone, clapping his hands with enthusiasm.

"That's always been a favorite of mine," he whispered to Peter. "I can't tell you how many years it's been since I've heard it performed so well."

The applause subsided; Jane shuffled in her seat and clutched Bran's arm. He laid a hand over hers and looked at the stage with proud expectancy. The lights dimmed further and then were extinguished completely. Excited whispers floated through the darkness.

A single candle was lit, creating a halo of light. A slight girl stood on the stage, clenching the flame in her hands. Its glow flickered over her features so that her face looked like a banner rippling in the wind. Annie stood silent: eyes raised to the ceiling; face quiet and calm. A green wreath perched atop her head, decorated with four electric candles. Her black hair cascaded over her shoulders, a shadow against the perfect whiteness of her dress. Her skin was flushed; her eyes sparkling blue sapphires. The audience murmured in aesthetic appreciation.

But something clenched unpleasantly in Peter's stomach as he watched his sister. Her beauty was extraordinary – and frightening. She looked wild, as if she were an unearthly being transplanted from a time long since gone. It scared him, this transformation of his beloved little sister into some unknown creature. Why had he never noticed it before?

_Because it's not her_, someone whispered. Peter jumped and whipped his head about, searching for the unknown speaker. But no one was paying him the slightest attention; even Will Stanton was held rapt by the girlish figure in white. Perhaps it had been his imagination. He had just decided upon this explanation when he heard the same voice again, eerie and distant:

_The beauty you see has nothing to do with the Annie you know, with the girl who finger-paints flowers and climbs trees higher than the boys during the summer. It is beyond her, a burden that she must bear, but not one that belongs to her._

Peter clapped his hands to his ears, but it was useless. The voice was in his head.

_And it is a burden for which she will pay dearly._

Peter panicked badly, as any rationale person would have. This wasn't the speech of his mind, the small voice that provided his life's running commentary. These words belonged to somewhat who was completely alien to him. _Who are you?_ he shouted desperately in his head. _What_ _are you trying to tell me?_ He strained to catch a response, but heard nothing. A bead of stinging sweat ran into his eye.

Annie's silence had captured the audience's complete attention, as she had wanted it to do. Smiling now, she heaved a deep breath and opened her mouth to sing:

_Nightly, go heavy hearts_

_Round farm and steading_

_On earth, where sun departs,_

_Shadows are spreading._

_Then on our darkest night,_

_Comes with her shining light_

_Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia._

Her voice was sweet and simple, slightly tinged by the remnants of her Welsh accent. The words flew over the audience like delicate paper birds. She sustained the last note; it quivered momentarily in the darkness before fading into silence.

The doors leading from the vestibule into the nave swung open, and a sea of lights flowed into the church. A procession of girls paced down the aisle, every one wearing white with a red sash about her waist. Their ages ranged from eight to eighteen, and each cradled a candle in her hands. Their voices rose to join Annie Davies' in the refrain:

_Santa Lucia,_

_Thy light is glowing_

_Through darkest winter night,_

_Comfort bestowing._

_Dreams float on dreams tonight,_

_Comes then the morning light,_

_Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia._

And then Annie solo again:

_Darkness shall fly away_

_Through earthly portals._

_Night-darkling, huge and still,_

_Hark, something's stirring!_

_Daylight again renewed,_

_Will rise all rosy-hued,_

_Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia._

The first thread of cold pierced Peter halfway through the second refrain. He looked in confusion down at the flesh of his left forearm, where he had felt the tiny pinprick of ice. Odd, the church wasn't cold. Bewildered, his eyes reverted once more to his sister, singing lonely on the stage. The smile on her face was gone, and the corners of her mouth looked grim. Her gaze swept the darkened audience in apprehension, and Peter saw that her eyes were wide and panicky.

Then, without further warning, pain tore his body apart.

Peter was never able afterwards to describe exactly what the attack of the Dark had felt like on a human body. The words that could contain such anguish had never been invented. An arctic glacier had exploded in his veins. His blood was a river of ice. It foamed through every inch of his body, and the synapses of his brain froze and crackled like icicles. Behind it all raged an overwhelming nausea, a red and black monster that gnawed gleefully at his insides. And then there was a screaming in his head. Except that it wasn't exactly screaming, but a horrid cacophony of laughter and shrieks and caterwauling, of tortured voices pleading piteously for help, all of them howling madly for his attention.

And the pain. The pain was killing him, he was going to die. He wanted to die. _Please, oh god, please, kill me now. Anything, even nothingness, rather than feel this agony one second more._

He opened his mouth to scream, to release the pain in any way he could. But before he could do so a new voice, strained yet calm, cut through the madness in his head and whispered small words of comfort:

_Hold fast, Peter. Hold fast, dear boy._

Peter looked about wildly, but noticed nothing unusual except that his right hand was engulfed in Will Stanton's left. The Old One had turned and was staring at him, eyes glazed and opaque. Peter recognized his own pain in their careful blankness, and he knew then that whatever it was, Will Stanton felt it too.

Another wave of torment broke over him, and his eyes rolled back in his head and his body convulsed.

_No! No, Peter! Open your eyes and look at me. Everything will be all right. They can't kill you. Do you hear me, damn it? They can't kill you, Peter._

Peter heard the words from a long way away. They floated to him across an ocean of pain. He grasped at them like a lifeline and let them pull him to shore. His gaze steadied and met Will's. There was a warmth seeping into his right hand. It ran up his arm and sparked in his brain, clearing a tiny bright spot in which he could think. It pushed away the pain and muffled the screaming.

_Will!_ He shouted in this strange new manner of communicating, the words forming themselves with some effort in his head. _Will, what is it? Is it the Dark?_

_Yes. No. Perhaps. I think so._

_What is it?!_ He screamed in terror.

_Look around you, Peter. What do you see?_

Peter's distressed gaze swept the church. The audience was smiling complacently in appreciation of the performance, oblivious to whatever it was that was tearing him apart body and soul. A red haze hung before his eyes, and several seconds passed before he saw what Will Stanton wished him to see.

Here and there, scattered throughout the church, there were people he knew with faces he didn't recognize. Something was blurring their features, a dark smudge that looked like a dirty eraser had tried to edit reality. Noses merged with lips, and eyes floated every which way upon skin that had become like putty. The faces belonged to neighbors and teachers and friends alike, but to no one under the age of forty. An old woman across the aisle turned slowly and looked directly at Peter. He stared, fascinated. Sluggish black tears poured down her cheeks, as if her eyes were weeping oil.

_Their faces . . . there are some people whose faces – they're gone, Will. They're gone!_

_Now look up, Peter._

Peter looked up. High above him, at the very peak of the church, roiled a black cloud that he knew well, having once before seen its blackness spreading over a winter night's moon.

_Now listen, Peter, can you still hear me?_

_Yes, Will, I can hear you. But . . . but . . . how?!_

_Never mind that for now. Peter, I'm going to have to let you go somewhat. You're going to have to fight it on your own for just a little while, do you understand?_

_Noooo . . . Will, please. I can't bear it again._

_You can. You must. Annie needs me. I can't shield you both completely, separated as we three are._

Peter's fingernails dug into his palms. A new voice was in his head now, or perhaps it had been there all along. It blended with the distant background of screaming, but at the same time was distinctly different. It howled in terror.

_Annie_.

His sister was still singing, her voice joined by those of the procession. She stood still and straight, hands clasped before her, a slight smile about her mouth. Everything about her was cool, calm, and collected. But even as Peter heard her physical voice ring in his ears, her inners shrieks increasingly filled his mind. It was uncanny, for the wailing rose and fell with the same rhythm of the music, the notes of despair strangely paralleling the song of light and hope. Peter saw that she had bitten her lip. A single drop of red blood welled at the corner of her mouth.

_Annie?_ he thought, sending his new mind-voice out into the dark void between him and his sister.

_Peter?_ The tentative cry reached him from a distance. _Peter, is that you?_

_Yes._

_What's happening?! It's like that morning. Only worse, oh so much worse . . ._

_I know. It's something to do with the Dark. . . . Annie, do you see it? Do you see their faces?_

There was no answer. Peter thought he heard a muffled moaning.

_Annie, answer me!_

_Peter, she can't._ Will's voice was gentle and firm, yet tense. _Just standing is taking almost everything she has. Let me help her._

Peter gritted his teeth and tried to capture the feeling of warmth that Will Stanton's calloused palm gave him. A part of his mind was sufficiently collected enough to wonder that a literature professor's hand was so rough. He took a deep breath and steeled himself.

_All right, then. I'm ready._

He released his grip on Will Stanton's hand.

It was as horrible as it had been before, it really wasn't. There was still the cold and the screaming and the pain, but they all remained safely at a bearable distance. Something of the Old One's protection remained with Peter, shielding him from the worst effects of the attack.

And Peter felt – how, he had no idea – a great river of Light leave Will and flow up to envelop Annie on the stage. Although "Light" wasn't quite the right word, for he could see nothing, only sense the heat and reassurance pouring out from Will. He saw Annie visibly relax. Her shoulders lowered and her hands fell down once again to hang loosely at her sides. During a break in the song her tongue darted out and blotted the drop of blood at her mouth.

The performance was almost over. The procession of lights had vanished once more through the church doors, and Annie was signing the final refrain:

_Santa Lucia,_

_Thy light is glowing._

_Through darkest winter night,_

_Comfort bestowing._

_Come now, O Queen of Light,_

_Wearing thy crown so bright._

_Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia._

Once the last note died away, the attack stopped as swiftly as it had begun. Peter could breath and think again. Annie looked silently out upon the audience once more. Then with a quick puff of breath she extinguished her candle and with one hand flicked the small off-switch on the battery pack that Peter knew was hidden beneath her sash. The wreath of lights on her head blinked out. There was darkness once again. Everything was silent, and Peter felt as if the stillness would drive him mad.

Then the church lights flickered back on, and thunderous applause erupted. The doors opened once again, and the girls who had been in the procession rushed to join Annie on the stage, where they bowed and giggled and waved to friends and family. Several of them flung their arms around his sister in warm-hearted congratulation. She returned their hugs absently. Ms. Evans then came out and raised Annie's hand in the air. The cheering increased. The girl smiled wanly.

Bran and Jane jumped to their feet and began to cheer and whistle, Bran calling out accolades in Welsh. Peter remained glued to the pew, head down, eyes fastened on the floor. He tried to focus simply on breathing. The pain and cold were gone. But when he raised his eyes he could still see the black cloud boiling just below the ceiling, and everywhere he looked there were random distorted faces staring in his direction.

For a brief second Peter's gaze collided with Richard Winslow's. The man was deadly pale. But his features were clear. His eyes met Peter's with a strained expression in them, and then darted swiftly away again. Peter looked down, and didn't look up again.

Jane noticed that he was still sitting. "Peter, come on!" she cried happily. "Stand up! Annie's getting a standing ovation!"

Peter squeezed his eyes shut and remained seated. He heard the words, but couldn't look at his mother. He could not. He knew that he would not be able to bear it if he saw that horrible blur upon his parents' faces.

Will Stanton must have known what Peter was thinking, for he grabbed the boy's arm and hauled him to his feet. "It's all right," he hissed in his ear. "Your parents are fine, look at them. Just act _normal_."

Peter stole a tentative sidelong glance. Smiles were plastered over his parents' faces, faces that were pure and clean and unsullied. His body deflated with relief. Jane reached around her husband to engulf Peter in a happy hug. "She was magnificent!" she cried. "Wasn't she?" Peter eagerly returned the hug, just glad that his parents were still his parents.

"Magnificent," he murmured.

The applause slowly died down and people began to throng the aisle as family members sought each other our for congratulations. Still, something was different now, something that Peter couldn't quite put into words. There was a brittleness to people's smiles, a fierceness to their laughter. Tension crackled in the air. Peter felt it the way that one feels television static, even though the screen may be blank and the sound muted. It was there, and yet not there. And every time he saw a blurred face out to kiss the cheek of a child, he cringed and looked away.

Will bent down to whisper urgently in his ear. "Go get your sister, Peter, and take her outside. Now."

"Will, can anyone else see it? The faces and the cloud? I feel normal again but – it's not over, is it? It's not gone."

"No, it's not gone. And I would be very much surprised if anyone else here could see as much as you and your sister. Now go get her outside. I'll stay with your parents. Run quick!"

Peter nodded wordlessly and began to fight his way to the stage. It was the most terrifying journey of his life. Noise and people crashed into him from all sides. The whole time he was dreadfully aware of the raging cloud above him, and he jerked back in horror whenever he brushed against an adult carrying the blurred face. Councilman Cianconne crossed his path, and Peter stifled a gasp. The man's face looked like it had been torn apart by a sharp-clawed beast.

Somewhere in the crowd, a cell phone started playing the _1812 Overture_.

"Peter!"

He had reached the stage. He looked up and saw Annie sprinting towards him across the golden wood. He reached out his arms, and she literally threw herself off the edge and into his grasp. He closed his eyes and rested his head in relief against her hair.

"Are you all right?" he whispered urgently.

"I think so. Will helped me, you know." There was an awe in her voice. "I didn't know he could do that."

"No, me neither."

"Peter, we have to do something! It's still here. Something terrible is going to happen, I can feel it!"

He frowned. "I think something terrible has already happened. But come, I'm supposed to get you outside. Here's your coat. Put it on." He placed her on her feet and tried to drape the poofy blue plastic about her.

She struggled. "What?! Why? No, I'm not going anywhere. I want to do something. Where's Will?"

"Will told me to take you outside. For once, I think you should do as you're told."

"What does that mean?!" She stomped a foot in fury, her face turning a shade of outrageous red. "Are you saying I'm a brat?"

Peter growled in frightened frustration. "Just shut up, will you? Have you looked at the ceiling yet? Look at it!" He seized her chin and forced it upwards. "Do you see that? Do you know what that is? I sure as hell don't, but I do know I don't want to be anywhere near it! Now let's go!"

He grabbed her arm and began pulling her through the crowd. Hands reached out from all directions, patting Annie's shoulders and shouting out congratulations. She waved absently in return as her brother dragged her along behind him. A few people tried to stop them and start a conversation, but Peter shrugged them off roughly and continued his single-minded journey towards the doors.

A woman shrieked: "He's dead!"

Peter skidded to a halt, and Annie crashed clumsily against his back. He reached out an arm and pulled her protectively against his side. The crowd fell abruptly silent. The voice had come from somewhere nearby, and heads swiveled anxiously to find who had spoken.

Peter's questing eyes fell upon an elderly woman standing several feet from him. It was the woman who had been sitting across from him during the concert, who had wept black tears. Her face was still a ruin. She held a phone against her ear, and another hand was pressed to her chest. She was shaking her head in disbelief. "He's dead!" she repeated.

"Who's dead, Maria?" someone called fearfully. "Who?"

"Muscharch! Muscharch is dead!" She senselessly let the phone fall to the floor. "Oh, thank the Lord." A smile tried to erupt on her shattered face. "Thank you, Lord, thank you. We bombed him good this time, he couldn't escape. Ruins, my son says, the whole city in ruins. But he's dead, they say."

"Not . . . not another nuclear bomb?" Mrs. Reynolds was suddenly there. She was wearing a dress of astonishing green velvet, and sprigs of mistletoe were tucked into her long grey hair. Fear quivered in her voice. "Oh, Maria, my friend, tell me it wasn't another nuclear bomb?"

"Nuclear? Of course it was, but one of the smaller ones, don't worry. Nothing huge. And now it's all over!"

_No_, Peter thought dully, remembering the coldness and the screaming and the pain. _It's just beginning. He's a martyr now._

People everywhere began shouting. The tension that had been humming in Peter's ears snapped. He didn't know what to think. People on all sides of him were crying and laughing. The tears he could understand. But the laughter, the strange, triumphant laughter, he could not.

A large hand fell on his shoulder. Peter jumped and whipped about, pushing Annie behind him.

"Peter Davies, where is William Stanton?"

Peter stared at Richard Winslow. The man's face was taut and furious, his voice low and threatening. Annie wrapped an arm carefully about her brother's waist.

"What do you want?" Peter snapped, tired of this man and his intrusions.

"He thought he could make me forget, did he?" Winslow hissed, leaning down into Peter's face.

Peter's jaw dropped.

Winslow laughed unpleasantly. "Oh yes, Mr. Davies, I've met Professor Stanton and his little tricks before. It was long ago, and I didn't realize it was the same man until tonight. Such things should not be possible. But when that sister of yours sang, I remembered everything. Will Stanton is involved in all this somehow, don't try to fool me into thinking he's just another school teacher. I know better. And now you're going to tell me where he is so that I can find him . . . and so that I can stop him."

Peter's brain scrambled for the right response. "Of course you've met Will Stanton before. You were just at out house last weekend, remember?"

"Before that, Mr. Davies. Many years before that."

Peter felt the blood drain from his face. "If you know what Will Stanton is, sir, you cannot possibly hope to stop him."

"Perhaps not. But I'll try anyway." Winslow grinned widely, showing his teeth and gums.

"You'll fail!" Annie said stoutly, defiantly.

Winslow's face flushed with anger. His jowls quivered. "Little girl, you know not what you speak of! You just go on thinking that William Stanton is noble and pure. I know the truth. I could tell you things that would make your young blood curdle. Do you imagine that this is a coincidence, that William Stanton just happens to return to Wraithfell after all these years at this specific time? If you think so, you're a fool!"

Annie's lips quivered.

"Richard Winslow, stop harassing these children! What are you saying to them?" A strident, angry voice cut into Winslow's attack.

Winslow's head jerked towards the new speaker. Peter and Annie gratefully looked up to discover the identity of their savior.

Mrs. Reynolds stood just behind them, arms folded across her chest, green eyes snapping. Her wild hair sprung out in all directions from her head.

"Madeleine." Winslow sounded somewhat taken aback. "It's been years, hasn't it? And to find you taking the opposition's side. How truly astonishing."

"Don't ever call me 'Madeleine' again, you insolent upstart. How dare you interrogate these children? They have nothing to do with your affairs."

"Madeleine, dearest, were you aware that Mr. William Stanton has returned, looking no older than a recent graduate student?"

The color drained from her face. "No," she whispered. "He couldn't have. Not again."

"Yes. And he's staying with these lovely children's parents. Now what do you have to say?"

A look of furious determination replaced Mrs. Reynolds' pallor. She threw her chin up. "I don't care, Winslow! You always thought you were so smart. Well, look where being smart has gotten you! You've never been able to admit you were mistaken about your friend. If blame is to be laid anywhere, it is with you and your damnable intelligence. Well, I know some things you don't _Dickie_. And this William Stanton, whomever he may be, cannot be who you think he is. Now get away from these children!"

For one second, Winslow's fleshy face drew in upon itself in a spasm of fear. But then the fear vanished, to be abruptly replaced by smugness. A slow, crafty smile spread over his face. "Very well, I'll go. But remember Madeleine, where your loyalties lie." Winslow turned his broad back and stalked away.

Mrs. Reynolds heaved a sigh and began to wring her hands. "Oh, I hope I did the right thing," she whispered anxiously.

"Mrs. Reynolds?" Peter asked tentatively, fearfully. The woman was staring vacantly into space.

"What? Oh, Peter." She sighed and looked down at the two children, valiantly trying to smile. "I'm sorry you had to see that. Richard Winslow and I have known each other for a . . . a long time. Sometimes he doesn't think about what he's doing. Still, he's not truly a bad man."

"Pardon me, ma'am," Annie blurted out. "But I think he's very bad, indeed."

Mrs. Reynolds laughed nervously. "Of course you do. He never really knew how to soften himself, even as a boy. I'm sure he meant you no harm, though."

Peter kept one arm tight about Annie's shoulders. Something in his heart was breaking. "Mrs. Reynolds, how do you and Mr. Winslow know Will Stanton?"

"I know no Will Stanton. Mr. Winslow doesn't either. He was mistaken." She paused. "But who is this man staying with your family? I met no visitors when I was there the other day."

Annie opened her mouth, but Peter stepped on her foot hard. She hissed in pain and clenched her teeth together. "Oh, no one," Peter said airily. "Just an old friend of my parents. He was upstairs with Da when you came. They've known each other since they were children."

"Since they were children, you say?"

"Yes. Why does that matter?"

"I said nothing about it mattering. Just idle curiosity."

"Well, that's what we were doing just now," Peter continued in a rush. "Will told us it would be a good idea to go outside with all these people packed in here. Annie's a little done for after all that singing. She needs some fresh air."

"Of course. By the way, it was a delightful performance, child, the best ever." Mrs. Reynolds' tried to grin at Annie, who blushed and murmured her thanks. The old woman turned back to Peter. "Well, if this visiting friend of yours told you to go outside, I think it would b best if you took his advice. He sounds like a wise man." She looked around at the crowd still swarming nervously around them. A shudder ran through her body. "And things are a little . . . difficult here at the moment."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Well, then, run along. I'll make sure Dick doesn't bother you again."

"Ok." Peter gave a stricken smile, and Annie waved a wordless goodbye. Holding hands, they fled to the doors.

Mrs. Reynolds followed the Davies' path with a troubled look on her face. Her face looked worn and haggard. She turned away once she saw that the two children had made it safely outside. A solitary tear ran down her cheek.

"He must be wrong," she murmured to herself. "He must!"

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_Chyneua_: Hey, thanks! A new reviewer, woohoo! Is it that obvious I'm a Democrat? Guess so : ). And there go all my conservative readers, if I ever had any. Oh, well, I never pretended to be non-partisan. Go Kerry! And as long as I'm on the subject of politics, bonus points go to whoever can guess the real-life inspiration for Winslow's physical appearance.

_Silvergenji_: Thanks! Love your Chapter 13! Ah, romance is in the air . . . I'll review it soon, I promise, but at the moment I couldn't possibly sit in front of this computer one second longer. I need both food and sleep desperately . . .


	15. Chapter Twelve

**A/N**: Finally back with an update. I've been studying a lot this semester, which is good for me, but bad for you. Hopefully, there should be several good updates over Christmas break. Oh, and I know Muscharch's description sounds like someone we all know very well from TDIR universe, but it's not him. I didn't realize the similarities until I re-read this chapter, and by then I was so invested in the guy that I couldn't change him.

_Standard Disclaimers_: Will Stanton and _The Dark is Rising Universe_ belong solely to Susan Cooper.

**_Warning!!!_ **There are a few small bad words in this chapter, and one very big bad word. I'm so sorry if anyone's offended, but I could think of nothing else that would get such a reaction from my hero. He's something of a laidback boy, as you may have noticed : ). I fretted over this a lot, however, and I just wanted everyone to know that it wasn't a cheap, thoughtless decision.

Reader Review Responses Below.

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

"The unforgivable crime is soft hitting. Do not hit at all if it can be avoided; but never hit softly."

Theodore Roosevelt

Peter and Annie Davies shoved against the church's heavy wooden doors and stumbled into the winter night. They were moving fast, and momentum caused Annie's thin, impractical shoes to slip on the packed snow. She clutched hastily at her brother to keep her balance. Peter, reeling and unsteady himself, cursed and grabbed at the nearby iron railing to keep them both from tumbling down the precipitous steps before them. Their quest would certainly come to an abrupt and bruising end if both he and his sister wound up in the emergency room with broken limbs.

And so it happened, occupied as he was, that he failed to see the coming attack.

But Annie saw it. "Peter!" she yelled in warning, flinging an arm up over her head to shield herself. "Look out!"

Peter had only a split second to glance skywards with apprehension. Then, with a shrill screech and a flurry of wings, a creature hurled itself into his face. He shouted and disentangled himself from Annie's grasp, raising his arms to swipe at the flapping thing that obscured his vision. It was large and brown and it screamed like a banshee, and the feathery tips of broad wings beat furiously against his skin.

"Hey! Get off!" he yelled, stumbling backwards and trying to cover his head. The creature followed relentlessly, a choking whirlwind that cut him off from the world. He couldn't _see_. "Annie, help!"

She shouted something he couldn't hear through the whooshing roar of flapping wings. She jumped and tried to beat the bird away with her own thin arms. But she was too small, or her brother too tall, and the bird merely rose just high enough to be beyond her reach and continued its assault.

"Ouch!" Peter cried. A searing pain erupted across his forehead, and his skin seemed to split open and then contract in the icy air. He felt blood throbbing through the veins, and it was sticky warm running down his right temple. The vile thing had _clawed_ him.

Annie stopped thinking. All she knew was that her beloved brother was fighting a desperate battle – and losing. She heard his cries and saw the blood thick and dark in the starlight. A cloud rose in her brain, and her vision went blurry. A rage she had never known consumed her. It was not pleasant. She no longer felt like a child, like a girl dependent on others. If anyone had asked her at that particular moment how long she had lived, she would not have known what they meant.

She stopped her silly flailing and jumping and took several quick steps backwards. The mitten on her left hand she tore off with her teeth and let fall to the ground. The dry taste of yarn was furry in her mouth. She pushed up the sleeve of her jacket and placed her bare hand over the silver bracelet that nestled just above her right elbow. All of a sudden she felt quite cool. Anger vanished, and in its place came a complete confidence.

"Be gone," she whispered softy, voice deadly, eyes narrowed. "Leave, you foul, nasty beast, I command you. You are not one to frighten us."

With a final scream the bird whirled away from Peter, clambered slowly up into the night sky, and soared away over the church steeple.

Peter collapsed on the ground, hand clamped to his forehead.

"Peter!" Annie cried, scrambling over and going down on her knees beside him. He looked up at her dazedly, just in time to see her hastily pull down the right sleeve of her jacket and pull on her left mitten. She looked quite scared, and there was something odd in her eyes.

"Is it gone?" he whispered. He gasped for breath, and the chill air tickled at the back of his throat.

"Yes, Peter, oh yes."

"What was it?" _It was a creature of the Dark_, a small voice whispered mockingly in the back of his mind. But Peter wasn't used to thinking in this manner, to the labeling of one thing as "Dark" and another as "Light," to the division of the world into such categories; and so he paid it no heed.

Annie, thankfully, took his question much more literally. "I think – I think it was an owl. Did you hear its cry?"

He shuddered. "Yeah. Where did it go?"

She pointed silently up to the night sky in the direction the thing had taken.

He gasped with bitter laughter. "Did you know that an owl flying over a building is an evil omen? It brings death with it."

"Peter, you're bleeding."

He pulled the hand from his forehead and stared numbly at the colorful mitten, its blue darkened to purple where his blood had stained it. He peeled it off and felt his forehead gingerly with his bare fingers. There. Right across the right side of his forehead: a long, shallow cut, running from hairline to temple, where the wicked thing's talons had grazed his skin.

"It's all right," he said slowly, reassuringly. "It's not deep. There's lots of blood now, but don't worry." He tried to speak clinically, like a doctor examining a patient. "There are lots of capillaries in the face, so anytime you get cut there it bleeds a lot. It doesn't mean anything. I doubt I'll even have a scar. Meanwhile . . ." And he pressed the already-soiled mitten to his forehead to staunch the rest of the bleeding.

He scrambled to his feet, Annie following and hovering anxiously an arm's length away. Other people were beginning to leave the church by now, and it wouldn't do to have anyone approach and ask why he was so daft as to sit upon the cold ground. Watching the people drift by him, Peter saw that were mostly other young students, many of them glancing anxiously back at the church with a look of hidden fear in their faces. They steamed past the Davies on both sides and staggered down the steps. A few of the younger children were crying quietly and clinging to each other. He saw no adults.

There was a bench at the bottom of the steps. Annie took Peter's hand and pulled him down the stairs. "Here, Peter, come this way," she said worriedly. "You really should sit down."

"All right." He complied mindlessly and followed her to the bench, which gleamed green in the light from the streetlamps. Annie, with her knee length coat, sat without hesitation upon the icy wooden slats and looked up at him anxiously. Peter, in his shorter ski jacket, looked askance at the wet wood and thought dimly about the discomfiture of wet damp underwear.

The wind kicked up and whipped his hair in his face. He hissed as several strands plastered themselves to the wound on his forehead. A bedraggled sheet of newspaper blew against his ankles. Somewhat meticulously, he bent down to pick it up, planning to place it on the bench as a precaution against soggy drawers. He was just flattening the sheets when the picture of the man on the front page arrested his movement.

"Peter, what is it?" Annie asked, seeing her brother freeze into immobility.

He opened his mouth to respond, failed to speak, and closed his lips and trembled.

Peter was familiar with President Muscharch's face, everyone was. It had been plastered on the television and in the papers for days. He knew well the fire-red hair (so unnaturally bright it could only be the product of a cheap dye-job), the icy blue eyes, and the thin lips that were compressed into a firm line of condemnation against the world. He knew the way the man sat in a chair and gazed calmly at the unseen photographer, his suit expensive and impeccable, legs crossed at the knees, and white, well-manicured hands clutching the armrests. He knew the shiny military medals displayed prominently on the thin chest, and the anger that set the otherwise delicate job into an implacable expression of hatred.

Peter raised his hand and gingerly felt the streak of blood that traced across his own forehead.

And yes, he knew the scar Muscharch bore, the fine line that stretched from hairline to right temple: shiny, pink, and violent. The scar that looked like a sharp knife had cut a delicate incision across that too-pale skin.

Peter knew then the purpose behind the messenger-creature the Dark had sent, the warning they had meant him to receive. And of course it had been an owl, for he was the Boy with the Owl's Eyes. Fear coursed through him, for until now the Dark had been merely some abstract force wreaking general havoc . . . elsewhere. Even the still-fresh horror in the church had been impersonal, something terrible directed against the whole world – even if only he, Annie, and Will Stanton were sensitive to it.

This slash across his forehead was different. It was deliberate, personal, vindictive. They – whoever _they_ were – knew who he was. And they were coming for him.

"Peter!"

He crumbled the paper violently in one hand and hurled it away into the December darkness.

"Peter, please don't scare me like this. What's wrong with you?! Will you look at me?"

He turned his gaze towards his little sister: blue eyes, black hair, and pale cheeks rosy from the cold. And the horrible fear he had first felt when he realized that he had been branded with the scar of a demon morphed and took on a different dimension. For the fear now within him was much more terrible, and it was a fear he felt for his sister, for the girl whom he had always protected, even if she had always been so brave that she scorned the mere idea of his protection. And he didn't know how to protect her anymore – _even if she is stronger than me_ – didn't even know if it could be done, or if they both together were doomed now.

"Come on," he said harshly, grabbing her hand and dragging her up from the bench. He didn't want to sit, anyway. The cloying warmth of the church and of his battle-panic was slowly departing from his skin as he stood in the chill night air, leaving him invigorated and weightless. He wanted to _run_. He wanted to strip off his heavy jacket and sprint down the empty town streets and howl to the sky. He wanted to run until the cold fury of Dick Winslow's eyes as he spoke Will Stanton's name drained from his memory.

"What? Where are we going? Peter, tell me what's wrong." Annie looked worried as she stared at him.

"We're going to find Will Stanton. I have to ask him something." Oh yes, Will Stanton had a lot to answer for.

"But I thought you said –"

"Never mind what I said! Come on!"

He whirled away, dragging Annie by the hand behind him. Impatience clouded his vision, and he collided with a huge mass of Gortex-covered flesh.

Stan Winslow. And four large buddies standing behind him.

_Damn!_

"Watch where you're going, Davies," the bigger boy hissed, grabbing Peter by the jacket and pulling him close. The accompanying Cronies giggled and 'ooh'ed. Annie let go of Peter's hand and scampered backwards.

_I really . . . dislike . . . this family_. Peter cringed, trying to look respectfully fearful. He didn't have time for trouble. "Sorry, Stan," he murmured, gently trying to disengage himself from the ham-fisted grip. He didn't know if he succeeded in keeping the annoyance from his voice. Fury simmered within him, waiting to erupt at the slightest provocation.

"You didn't say the magic word, dweeb."

"_It's 'please'_!" Annie hissed.

Peter didn't think that was it, but he tried again. "_Please_ let me go, Stan."

"Nah. That wasn't the one I was thinking of. Repeat after me: 'I'm sorry, sir, that I'm such an asswipe. I'd promise not to do it again, but I think I'll always be an asswipe.' Make it something real pretty, use some of that large vocabulary you smart boys know. Oh, and make sure you call me 'sir.' That's the magic word. And what the hell happened to your forehead, Davies? Thinking too hard, are we?"

Peter's cheeks burned. "None of your damn business!" he snarled, knowing he was being foolish, knowing he should simply say whatever silly thing Stan wanted him to say and get the hell out of there and go find Will Stanton.

"What was that, asswipe? What did you say?" Stan's eyes narrowed.

"You heard what I said, you – you subcutaneous mucus growth!"

Annie giggled. The Cronies went "ooh" again.

Stan was staring directly into Peter's eyes. "What was it?" he whispered fiercely, so low that the Cronies standing behind him couldn't hear what was said. The abrupt change of tone from mocking to deadly serious let Peter knew that Stan as no longer referring to whatever wise-ass remark had or had not heard Peter make.

"What was what?" Peter snapped in exasperation.

"You know." The grip on Peter's jacket collar tightened. Breathing suddenly became difficult.

"Honestly, I have no freaking idea what you're talking about, you freaking lunatic," Peter choked out, struggling. He felt grateful for countless hours spent watching _Law & Order_ that had taught him how to put on a false show of bravado.

Stan snorted in derision. "What did that freaky father of yours do to my dad?" he hissed.

"Huh?"

"What did you do to him?!" Stan's voice went loud and high, cracking unexpectedly. It attracted the attention of a few older students standing nearby, who nudged each other and wandered over in the hope of catching a fight.

"Nothing," Peter stammered, his eyes desperately scanning the gathering crowd of kids. There wasn't a single friendly face he knew. Wait, no, there was one; her name was Hana and she was in his math class. She was a quiet girl smart, and had always spoken nicely to him when they met. Now, she was staring at him with pity and unease in her face. Their eyes locked for a second, and then hers skittered away shamefully. Peter knew then that there was no chance of an intervention. "Nothing, Stan, I swear!"

"Oh, and that would explain why he can't remember a thing from that little visit I asked him to pay to your family yesterday morning, huh?"

Peter remembered Will Stanton's incredible blue-grey gaze. _Will, what exactly was it you did?_ "That's crazy," he scoffed, trying to sound scornful and disbelieving and confident all at once.

"Not so crazy, I think," Stan whispered. "Those are pretty creepy eyes you and your dad have. I've heard the stories they tell about you two. _Witches_, they say. Devil's spawn."

"You tell him, Stan!" someone in the crowd shouted. "We don't want his kind around here!"

_What is this, the eighteenth century?_ Peter thought wildly. _What's next? An exorcism?_ He steadied himself and broke free from Stan's grasp with a nimble twist of his shoulders. He quickly stepped backwards and tried to keep all emotion from his face.

"I've no idea what you're talking about, Stan," he said levelly, shrugging his bunched-up jacket back into place. "But I know we've got more important problems now than whatever silly things your imagination has been telling you."

Stan laughed in genuine disbelief and surprise. "You mean those stupid little bombings we just heard about?" he asked mockingly.

Peter couldn't believe his ears. No one – no, not even Stan Winslow – could be that thoughtless. "Yeah, that's what I'm talking about," he replied, patronization dripping from his words. "Forgive me, but whether your dumb dad has Alzheimer's or not isn't at the top of my list of priorities."

It was a low blow, Peter knew that. Stupid and childish, too, and certainly not as witty as he would've hoped. Still, he reached out and grabbed Annie's hand and turned to walk away, hoping that Stan's musty mental machinations would grind slowly enough to allow them to make a clean getaway.

"Just let him go, Stan," someone spoke up. "He hasn't done anything to you." _That's Hana_, Peter thought gratefully as he walked away.

But Stan Winslow wasn't listening and he had his pride to maintain. And whatever his moral failings, he wasn't as stupid as Peter wished him to be. He had an undeniable flare for performance that he kept carefully hidden from his philistine friends. (Secretly, his favorite movie was _The Sound of Music_.) But now, caught off-guard by the unexpected spunk the Davies kid had shown, the drama-club enthusiast hidden in Stan Winslow's _id_ emerged and asserted itself. He raised both arms to the sky in disbelief and spun to address the small crowd. No one said a word, avidly enthralled by the drama unfolding before them. Stan spoke in the grandiose manner of a circus ringmaster introducing the newest and latest freak of nature:

"Ladies and gentlemen, can you believe it?! That –" and he flung one arm out to point at Peter's retreating back "– weirdo actually thinks I give a damn whether some two-bit n&g#ers on the opposite side of the world get blown up or not! Gosh, how _retarded_!"

There were a few shocked, disapproving gasps from the crowd. Some giggled nervously.

And the retreating back halted abruptly.

There were many things Peter Davies could have done at that point. He could have done his best Humphrey Bogart impression and walked stoically out into the foggy night. Or, he could have patiently explained to Stan Winslow why that particular epithet didn't technically apply to a people whose unique geographical location meant that almost every single ethnicity ran in their bloodlines. Or he could have shot off some snappy, profanity-filled retort about Stan's mama that would've drawn laughter and hoots from the surrounding audience. He could have done any of these things.

But he didn't.

Instead, he did the stupidest thing imaginable.

He dropped Annie's hand, took several swift steps back to where Stan Winslow was standing, and let fly his best right roundhouse at Stan Winslow' thick jaw.

_Crack!_

_Ouch_. He didn't know punching someone _hurt_ so badly.

If Peter Davies had been only a few pounds heavier, Stan Winslow would've been down for the count, knocked out cold. As it was, Peter Davies, though tall, was still a rather skinny boy, and his awkward punch (the first he had ever thrown) didn't quite carry the weight it needed. Moreover, the part of him the could not – absolutely could _not_ – believe that it was possible to take down Stan Winslow quivered back in hesitation and injected just enough tentativeness into the blow so that it wasn't quite as effective as it could have been.

Still, it was more than enough to send Stan Winslow sprawling backwards into the snow.

But it wasn't enough to keep him down. And there was no Will Stanton present to shield Peter.

With a roar Stan Winslow surged to his feet, flung himself at Peter, and slammed the skinnier boy's body back against the brick wall that encircled the churchyard. Peter grunted as he felt his shoulder blades crunch against the hard surface. The breath whooshed out of him, leaving him feeling limp and deflated. He vaguely heard Annie shriek and he felt her small body catapult itself against his belly as she flung her arms about waist in some foolish effort to shield him from the wounded bull that was Stan Winslow. Peter clutched reflexively at her shoulder.

It was at this moment that Time conveniently decided to slow down to a near standstill. For Peter, everything began to take on the dream-like clarity that he usually only found in his worst nightmares.

He saw Stan Winslow's fist draw back, poised and cocked to deliver a devastating blow. He noticed the freckles scattered around Stan's eyes and a pale scar he wore beneath his chin. Tiny black hairs sprouted from the approaching knuckles.

Oh, and those knuckles were coming faster now. Peter cringed. _Perhaps this would be a good time to think about getting out of the way, Davies_. But Stan's hand was at Peter's throat, holding him immobile. So Peter did the only thing he could think of doing.

He slid his free hand into his jacket and beneath his sweater and fumbled blindly at the blue-green stone Will Stanton had grafted onto the silver necklace that hung about his neck. He clenched it desperately in his fingers and wished for this all to end.

Peter had one final glimpse of the raging river of fear and anger pouring from Stan Winslow's green eyes. And then there was a great _POP!_, and something attached itself to his guts and yanked. Space and time spun, and Peter Davies felt himself fall out of this world and into someplace else.

/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0/0

_silvergenji_: Thanks again for the great review! I'll tell you what my best friend always tells me when I start screaming wild-eyed and pounding the steering wheel in a traffic jam: "Patience is a virtue." : ). Pieces will start falling together very soon. Anxiously awaiting your next update!

_Chyneua_: Thanks as always to one of my most faithful reviewers!

_Iaurhirwen_: Give yourself a nice, big, congratulatory pat on the back! You got me off my lazy, I-have-to-study-all-the-time butt and back into the mood for writing. Thanks! I'm so glad you like the story, and I love reviews that I get weeks after I've updated. It's very inspiring. As for the inspiration of Muscharch's name, I think it probably was subconsciously mannered after President Musharaff, but it wasn't done intentionally. I don't know much about the details of India and Pakistan's problems, except that Kashmir and religion (now that's a shocker) are somehow involved. You're program sounds like it was really interesting!


	16. Chapter Thirteen

**A/N**: Another update. Sorry for the wait, I was so angry with my laptop I left it in my apartment over break. The horrid thing broke down at 4 a.m. while I was in the middle of my marathon ConLaw final. So this chapter is a little out of order because what should have come next is on that evil machine in St. Louis. I'll rearrange things eventually, but wanted to post this now that it's written.

**Standard Disclaimers Apply**: Will Stanton, Jane Drews, Bran Davies, and the complete _The Dark Is Rising _universe belongs to Susan Cooper. Oh, I should also credit Ursula Le Guin's _The Farthest Shore,_ from which I borrowed the language "The magic had run out." No plagiarism or profit is intended by this story. Trust me, if I was making any money off of this, I sure as hell wouldn't be in law school.

Sorry, I'm still suffering from the residual bitterness of finals - please make me happy and _review_!

Reader Review Responses are below.

**Chapter Thirteen **

"We are better able to enjoy a fantasy as fantasy when it is not our own."

- Susan Sontag, died December 29, 2004.

"In a tremble they opened the street door. Mr. Darling would have rushed upstairs, but Mrs. Darling signed to him to go softly. She even tried to make her heart go softly.

Will they reach the nursery in time? If so, how delightful for them, and we shall all breathe a sigh of relief, but there will be no story. On the other hand, if they are not in time, I solemnly promise that it will all come right in the end."

- J.M. Barrie, _Peter Pan._

The midnight wind whistled through the deserted churchyard, high and strange, and snow blew in clouds across the icy pavement. Everything was dark except for the light of a lone streetlamp shining orange upon the luminescent ground.

The concert-goers had long since returned home. It had been a strange and troubling night, and they drank Christmas Eve hot chocolate with their sleepy sons and daughters in an attempt to capture the usual holiday cheer. They failed, but could not say why they failed. Goodnight kisses placed against damp foreheads were distracted, and whispered promises about the coming delights of Christmas morning rang false. Sugar cookies tasted like dust, and stockings hung from chimneys limp like small slaughtered beasts. They fell asleep that night with glum hearts. The magic had run out.

But in the still churchyard, in the dim glow of the streetlamp, two lonely shadows sat upon the churchyard steps. They remained at some distance from each other, each huddled into their own private ball of misery. The cold was harsh, and both must have suffered from shivers and runny noses. But neither Jane nor Bran suggested leaving their watchful post.

Jane stirred and lifted her head from her knees, her face pale under her dark hat. The words dripped from her lips heavy as molten lead.

"You _did _check the car twice? And the house?"

Bran's response was distant and cool. "Yes. Everything was dark. I searched the treehouse, too. Empty. And you looked inside here?" His jeweler's fingers played with a frost-encrusted stick. The light from the streetlamp bounced off the turning wood so that it looked like smoldering embers in the night.

"There isn't single corner of this wretched church I missed. I even looked in the sacristy; someone left the door unlocked. But they weren't there. They weren't _there_!"

"Jane, calm yourself."

"Bran, I can't help thinking . . . what about the river? They wouldn't have gone to the river, would they?"

Shadow-Bran hurled the stick into the darkness and buried his face in his hands. His voice was muffled against mittened fingers. "I don't think so. I've told Peter many times how dangerous it could be, even if the ice looked solid. He wouldn't have taken Annie there; he knows better. And I walked for a quarter mile along the banks. There were no holes in the ice, and no footprints save mine."

"Still . . ."

"I know, Jenny. I know. Just try not to think about it."

"How could two children vanish so completely? Madeleine saw them leave the building, but no one saw them outside. Most of the students, even those in Peter's grade, didn't even know who I was asking about. It was like they'd never even met him. Even that nice little Hana Shields girl just looked at me as if I was insane. Isn't that strange?"

Bran shrugged. "Isn't everything that happens when Will Stanton's around 'strange'?"

Jane shivered and wrapped her arms about her updrawn knees, resting her cheek against her coarse wool coat. "Of course," she whispered. "And where are you on this winter's night, Will Stanton? Where have you taken our children?"

The only movement was the clouds of condensation their frozen breathes made in the night air. When Jane finally spoke again, her voice was thick with misery.

"Bran, I don't understand anything that's happening. But do you feel like we're . . . missing something? I can't explain it, but it's almost as if . . . as if . . ."

"As if there was a voice trying to tell us something, but we aren't tuned to the right frequency to hear it?"

"Something like that. Or as if I was in a room from my childhood, but everything is dark and I've forgotten how to feel my way by touch."

"And why is it we don't know anything? " Bran turned to his wife, and she saw the bright anger start to flare in his owl's eyes. "Jane, do you know where Will's been these past three years? Why it is we never heard from him?"

Caught, she was unable to look away from that yellow glare. Her breath began to come hard. Bran looked dangerous. His eyes glittered gold and she knew well that proud tilt of the chin. She wasn't frightened, but it had been a long time since she had seen such a sharp intensity in his face; so long she had almost forgotten that it was this wildness in the albino boy she had first fallen in love with. That other love, the trusting kind built upon his sweetness and devotion, which had allowed them to marry and raise a family, had come later. That love was the greatest treasure life had given her. But it was this fey madness that had drawn her to Bran all those years ago in the Welsh mountains, when she had seen him for the first time in a halo of light created by sun's reflection off his brilliant white hair.

How could she have forgotten?

"No," she whispered, not really sure what question she was answering. "I – I just assumed he was busy traveling and doing research. I never really wondered about it. I missed him, of course . . ."

She could hear his teeth grinding together. "Well, _I've_ wondered about it. Did you know that his family hasn't seen him in three years either? Not even his older brother Stephen; I know, I called to ask. Will just wrote or phoned every now and then to tell them how busy he was working. And the only thing his university would tell me was that he was on sabbatical and didn't leave an address. He disappeared after we left, and hasn't reappeared until now.

"Jenny, Will knows something. He knew it when he walked up our driveway last week. Otherwise, he wouldn't have come. And now he won't tell me a damn thing."

He stared dully into the darkness; the fire of his anger dimmed and fell to ashes, leaving his face cold and eerily white. He scuffed a foot against a step, the gravel left by countless snow-covered shoes crunching under his boot. "Some friendship, huh?"

The melancholy in his voice made him human once again in Jane's eyes, nothing more than the man who had changed dirty diapers and snored gently in her ear on winter nights. She hitched herself over the few feet of ice separating them and grasped him by the wrist. She studied him with searching eyes. He stared back, and she noticed how the crow's feet about his eyes were getting deeper. She knew her own face carried the same lines. They were getting older.

"Bran, have you ever wondered about why we never question Will? This is not normal. Any sane person would have called the police hours ago. But we've never even mentioned the possibility."

Bran looked puzzled. "Why would we call the police? They couldn't do anything; they have no idea what's going on. I mean, you can't have just anyone nosing around when Will has something to do. It would be dangerous."

"Are you listening to yourself, Bran? Do you hear?" There was rising excitement in her voice, as if she was on the verge of deciphering a complicated and troubling code.

"Hear what?"

"You talk about the danger of people meddling in Will's affairs. But really, Bran, how do we know its dangerous? But somehow we do . . . and now he has our children with him, wherever he went. At least, let's hope so."

Bran studied her with wary eyes.

Jane took a deep breath. This was the moment to say what she knew needed to be said. The words left her in an impassioned rush. "Bran, I've -- I've been having these dreams. The strangest dreams! I can't even describe them, because when I wake in the morning they're all but forgotten. All that's ever left is a wisp of a memory, the ghost of a friend."

Despite everything, Bran smiled to himself. This was one of the things he loved most about his writer wife, how even when things were darkest she could spin language like a poet.

"And my story, Bran, do you know why I've let no one read it, not even you? I'm scared of it. I find my dreams again in my story; they come back as I write. There are three children, two brothers and a sister, and they travel to Wales for vacation. They meet two boys there, two magical, wonderful boys, the best of friends, and they have the most amazing adventures together and defeat the forces of evil. But in the end everything must be forgotten, and crumble into dust, for – "

"Jenny – "

"No, don't interrupt me, dammit! And don't tell I'm mad, because I'm not. I tell you, it's too real! Bran, I feel the words as I write them. The emotions of the girl are my emotions; her fears are my fears; the sun that shines on her arms warms _me_."

He could not bear the anguish on her face. Oh, yes, he believed her; he had known her too long to doubt her now. And she wasn't crazy. Or if she was crazy, then they were both insane together, for he knew as she did the story she was telling him. He saw its shadowy edges lurking in the dim corners of his mind, he just couldn't grasp its true substance.

And because his heart was breaking for reasons he could not name, he reached his arms about her and enveloped her in the most massive hug he could manage, for both her comfort and his.

Jane pressed her cheek hard against the his shoulder, turned her face to the darkness, and continued her confession in a whisper.

"The last dream was the strangest though, and it came the night after the first bombings. It's the first one I've remembered clearly. We were all together in the mountains: you, Will, I and my brothers, and an old man, our uncle, who was leaving us. And he told me something about Peter and Annie that I couldn't remember. And when he left Will asked me for the stone, our stone that you gave me years ago. I woke up then. And the stone was gone. I'd lost it! And now I feel, Bran, I feel it in my bones, that somehow all these things are connected, and that is why our children are gone."

Bran felt a plunging hollowness in his chest. He had forgotten to tell Jane that he had given the stone to Will. He put her at arm's length from him and wiped a tear from her cheek. She looked at him with misery. "I'm so sorry, Bran! I've looked everywhere, but it's nowhere to be found. I've lost the first present you ever gave me!" The tears began to pour, and she sobbed and gasped. "I've lost it! And everything I've ever held dear has gone with it!"

He massaged her small shoulders and forced a laugh, low and awkward. "Don't cry, Jenny. I have a confession to make as well. You didn't lose your stone; Will has it. I gave it to him. Perhaps your dream spoke true."

The tears stopped abruptly. Her face froze in an expression of surprise for several seconds, and then began to melt into a thoughtful perplexity. "You mean . . . Will? But why?"

"He's renting a Heidelberg professor's house next term, and apparently the man is quite the expert on Welsh artifacts. Will told me wrote a scholarly article about stones that sounded exactly like yours, and that . . ."

His voice trailed off, and Jane watched his features harden. His hands dropped from her shoulders, and he turned to hunch his shoulders against the wind. He folded his arms against his stomach, hands clenched at the elbows. When he spoke his voice was so soft she had to strain to hear the words.

"Never mind that, Jenny. I don't know what he wanted it for."

She let him sit alone with Will's lie for some time. She had to think. A pattern began to form before her, and within it was woven hours and days of which she had no recollection. But there was one specific night that blazed in her memory like a beacon. She moved over so their knees touched and leaned her head on his shoulder.

"Do you remember, Bran," she began quietly, "that night when Will and I were visiting you in Wales? I think we were sixteen at the time. Your father called to say his truck had broken down and that he would be staying the night in Tywyn because of a storm."

Bran became perfectly still. Tension stiffened the shoulder beneath her cheek. "Yes. All the roads were flooded. He couldn't walk and didn't want to make someone risk an accident by giving him a lift."

"I remember that night well. I had never seen such lightning before, like electric webbing across the sky. I felt I would explode just watching it, it was that beautiful. The power went out, and you and Will put candles and lamps all throughout the room. We cooked hotdogs over a kerosene flame for dinner and were planning to kip on the floor. We all felt very grown-up and adventurous. And a little wild. 'Come,' you said, and threw a tablecloth over my shoulders. 'Let's pretend that you and I are lord and lady of the castle-keep, and Will there our indentured _dewin_, bound to serve until a curse placed upon him by an evil sorceress is lifted. The enemy hordes are upon us. We're outnumbered dreadfully, and it is the eve of a bloody battle.'"

"What a singularly adventurous lad I was then."

She ignored him. "I laughed, for a game of pretend pleased my mood, and I was giddy with love for you. Never mind that we were all far too old for make-believe. But Will, I remember, had been quiet that night. More so than usual. While we were racing about and giggling like children, he sat in a corner and gazed out at the storm with that intense way he has. But you would have none of his moodiness.

"'_Dewin_,' you commanded, throwing out an arm and laughing. 'Fetch me a lightning bolt for my scepter, so that I may destroy the barbarian hordes, and stars to adorn the crown of my queen.'"

Bran let out a great whoosh of air and drew an arm about her shoulders, pulling her closer than she already was. "Ah, that I remember. You don't know how well the candlelight and my father's old tablecloth suited you. I had never seen you look more lovely. The vision of stars nestled in your brown hair left me breathless."

It was a rare confession, and her cheeks reddened. Pleased, she raised an unconscious hand to tuck a strand of still-dark hair behind an ear.

"Will looked up from his corner and saw us standing before him, flushed and smiling and completely alive in the candlelight. There was a strange smile in his face. He stood and walked to the door, flinging it open and letting in the raging night. The wind blew out all the candles and lamps. He raised his arms as if to embrace the storm. He laughed and turned his head to look back at us, grinning because he knew we now felt unprotected and scared.

"'Do you wish a lightning bolt for your scepter, King Bran?' he asked mockingly, joining our game. 'As your _dewin_, I cannot advise it, for your fingers would grow burnt and scorched, and you would not be able to hold it. Thus would you lose your kingdom, my lord, though all your enemies lay dead at your feet from so terrible a weapon. It is not a wise wish. As for stars for your lady's crown . . .' He laughed at me. 'None should molest the heavens, lest doing so should throw the whole universe into imbalance. It is best to let the stars burn in peace, as they have for age upon age.'

"I remember screaming then, for a bolt of lightning reached down from the sky and struck Cader Idris in the distance. Your hand clenched my arm at the elbow, and I felt your trembling throughout my whole body. Then there was a great gust of wind, greater than any that had come before, and the door blew shut in Will's face, leaving us all in darkness.

"Without speaking, we fumbled in the blackness for the box of matches and re-lit the candles and lamps with trembling fingers. I shrugged the tablecloth from my shoulders; I had had enough of pretend. When the room was bright again, Will crossed his arms, leaned his back against the door, and looked at us. I remember how tired he looked; I felt sorry for him.

"'Forget the lightning and the stars, Bran,' he whispered, eyes on the floor. 'Your _dewin _cannot give them to you. But while I live, know this. Every breath in my body belongs to you and Jane and those who will follow you. No harm shall come to you or yours that I can prevent. Remember that, my friends. When things grow darkest, remember that one thing.'

"We stared at him, and I can't imagine the expressions that must have been on our faces. But Will just cackled and wiggled his fingers at us. 'The curse of the evil sorceress requires no less,' he said, grinning. 'And I shall do her heinous bidding until Simon Drews puts on a pink dress and a curly wig and asks me to the Holiday Ball. Which, as we all know, will never happen, no matter how much I should wish it.'"

"We all laughed at that: Will simply, and you and I nervously, relieved that whatever had happened was over. You suggested cards, and we sat cross-legged in a circle on the floor and stayed up much longer than we should have, laughing and joking as any adolescents would. The ice cream was melting, so we took it out and gorged ourselves. And we should have forgotten the night with the coming day. But I didn't forget, Bran. I don't think we were meant to. Not that, at least."

Great shudders were running through Bran's whole body. "It was just pretend, Jenny-girl. Just nonsense to pass the time. Will wanted to scare the daylights out of us, that's all. He did a bloody fine job at it, too."

"Do you really believe that, Bran?" She studied his profile earnestly in the darkness.

He shook his head, but it was a half-hearted gesture. "What else should I believe? Come on, Jane! Listen to you, you sound completely barmy! Will's eccentric, that's all, he always has been. This is no different. He probably just took the kids somewhere to show them . . . oh, I don't know! The poetry of a branch in the moonlight or something just as sappy. And he forgot about the time. They'll be back any minute now, you'll see."

"No, Bran. I see now they won't."

He let out a hoarse sob and turned to bury his face in her neck.

"Shh," she whispered, running a hand through his hair. "Bran, I'm scared, too. More scared than I've ever been in my entire life. But Peter and Annie will come back to us, somehow or another, I know they will. And whatever Will told you, whatever lie he spoke, it was for the best. I'll never understand him, but I trust him. And I know you do, too."

They sat silent for some while. Jane didn't know whether the moistness she felt on her neck came from his tears or the snow that had begun to fall gently from the sky.

Once Bran's breathing was calm and even again, he rose and held a hand out to her. His face was quiet. "Come," he said, grasping her wrist and pulling her to her feet. She looked at him quizzically, but complied. The bell tower above them began to chime. Twelve long, deep tolls that vibrated in their stomachs and quivered in the cold night air.

Midnight. Christmas Day.

They stood facing each other, their heads tilted upwards as if they could see the peals that soared like hawks above their heads. Like children making a solemn vow and promise, their clasped hands hung between them.

When the last strike of the bell died away, Bran looked down at his wife and gave her a bittersweet grin. "Merry Christmas, my lovely friend," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss her lips. "Let's go home."

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_Silvergenji_: Grins happily I know I've said this already, but congratulations on little Kyle! I hope he's enjoying his new swing : ). Sorry about the cliffy, and also that this chapter won't answer any questions. The next will be up quickly, though, sometime next week. (If my computer isn't dead for good, that is. Otherwise . . . well, we'll see.)

_Chyneua_: Thanks! Don't worry about not doing a review justice, just the fact that you care enough to review chapter after chapter makes me ecstatic. : ).

_MollyTheWanderer_: Ah, I've bagged another new reviewer . . . I love knowing I'm reaching new readers. Thank you thank you thank you! Glad I made your venture into the TDIR forum exciting!


	17. Arrival

**A/N**: Technically, this should be chapter thirteen, and chapter thirteen should be fourteen. Sorry. I'll go back and switch things when I update next. Too sleepy right now.

If anyone's massively confused about this chapter, go back and re-read Chapter Six. Long time ago, I know, I'm sorry. Just trying to pull together all these plot threads I've left loose. I've sowed all my seeds, and am now reaping the harvest . . .

**Standard Disclaimers Apply**: Susan Cooper owns Will Stanton, Bran Davies, Jane Drews, and _The Dark is Rising _universe. I have only hopes and aspirations and credit card bills.

Reader Review Responses Below

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

"I and the public know

What all school children learn

Those to whom evil is done

Do evil in return."

- W.H. Auden, "September 1st, 1939."

Peter fell and fell and fell, tumbling madly through stretches of time and space unknown. All senses abandoned him. He felt no such thing as hot or cold, and forgot the difference between light and dark. His muscles pulsed and contracted and then seemed to tear away from his bones. But he knew no pain, for this was a place where words such as pain or comfort or joy had no dimensions. He could feel only a sleek fabric beneath his hand, and the sharp angles of a small bony shoulder beneath that.

He landed hard (except "land" wasn't the right word for it . . . he felt only a sudden expansion, as if he were one of those toy sponges children played with that blossomed into animals when dropped in water). What must have been Annie's form escaped his grasp and spun away. Peter shouted, or tried to shout, and reached out into the emptiness to find her again.

But slowly the emptiness began to fill. First came the welcome sensation of ground beneath his feet, solid and dependable. Wherever he was, he was standing at least, and not sprawled out helpless.

Then there came another hand at Peter's throat, similar to Stan's, yet different. This one wasn't choking him, but had him by the coat collar and was shaking him impatiently, but not roughly. Still, even the gentle movement made Peter dizzy, and colorful spots danced like a Tilt-a-Whirl before his eyes. When his cheek brushed against his coat collar, he didn't feel the smooth sleekness of nylon. Instead, the scratchy roughness of wet wool abased his skin.

_I'm wearing different clothes . . . Now that's interesting._

His sight began to clear, and he blinked as a brilliant light -_ a flashlight? _- invaded his sensitive pupils. A dark shape was looming over him, tall and angular. When it spoke, it was with the dry rustling of leaves in autumn.

"What are you doing here, boy? What's your name?"

Peter couldn't respond. His head lolled to the side and his dazed gaze wandered the surrounding scenery.

He was standing in the middle of an old-fashioned, desolate cobblestone road. Well-manicured trees loomed on both sides: pines and maples and hemlocks. Ice-encrusted branches leaned heavily to the ground, looking like white sparkling coral. They clattered sharply in the slight wind. _Only freezing rain could've caused that_, Peter thought dimly. It was night, and large fat snowflakes drifted down from a cloud-smothered sky. He could see an enormous wrought-iron gate loom out of the darkness before him. An elaborate 'T' was affixed on its bars. There was a guard booth to one side. Its occupant must've left in a hurry, for the door was left open, spilling light out onto the ground.

Peter's nose began to tingle in the cold, and he felt the quiet whisper of snow on his cheeks. He blinked again, and small flakes caught in his lashes and tried to freeze his lids shut. He sneezed.

The unknown man gave him another shake, a harder one that made Peter's teeth rattle.

"Didn't you hear me? Do you have any friends lurking out there in the shadows, boy? Thought you'd play a funny trick on me, huh? Appearing out of nowhere just like that? Well, I may be old, kid, but I'm not crazy yet. Now, last time, _what's your name_? Your parents will certainly be receiving a call from us."

The man was grasping Peter's collar with one hand and shining a flashlight directly into his eyes with the other. Peter squinted and turned his head to the side, unable to see the man's features. He opened his lips to speak, but could only manage a nervous gurgle.

There was an unexpected rustle from the trees to one side of the road. The man released Peter and whirled to face the sound, shining the light into the darkness. Peter, left suddenly without a support he hadn't even known he'd needed, collapsed upon the stony road. Cold gravel and shards of ice dug into his palms through the leather - _leather! _- gloves he wore. His eyes turned to the trees in horror.

A small black shape tumbled out, and Peter almost laughed in relief as the man's flashlight revealed his sister's features. Her hair was tousled and wild and covered with twigs; smudges of dirt marred her cheeks. She looked dreadfully annoyed.

"Fudgsicles!" she muttered viciously as she struggled to her feet. She came forward from under a clump of gnarled hemlocks, brushing powdery snow from her sleeves. Like Peter, she was dressed differently. Gone was the poofy blue jacket, replaced by a wool coat of muted gray. Her impractical white slippers had also given way to neatly buckled shoes that looked like they would be much better protection against the snow and slush.

She folded her arms across her chest and hunched her shoulders. Shivering and wet from her fight with the trees, she glared sullenly at the man, who stood speechless with his mouth agape. Her voice was sharp and shrill. "His name is Peter Davies. I'm Annie Davies. And get that light out of my face, please!"

The man angled his torch towards the ground. He laughed. Peter looked at him and saw a face crisscrossed with wrinkles and eyes quick and sharp and bright. The body was thin, but carried in a manner that suggested swiftness of movement. His coat was long and dark, and a wool hat with flaps covered his head and ears. The hat was pushed back slightly to reveal short dark hair streaked with grey at the temples. _Fifty years old, at the least, but probably closer to sixty_, Peter concluded. The man was grinning broadly, a gargoyle trying to beam like an angel.

"Peter Davies? And you're his sister -- Annie, right? Well, I guess we've been expecting you." He chuckled and offered a hand to Peter, still sprawled on the ground. Peter accepted it hesitantly and found himself hauled to his feet by a surprisingly firm, yet bony, grip. "Why didn't you just say you were Peter Davies in the first place?" the man asked him. He reached down to brush slush from the shoulders of Peter's wool coat.

"Who are you?" Peter asked in unthinking astonishment.

"Samuel Nightshade, the security guard here. The headmaster told me you'd be arriving tonight, but we expected you hours ago. Thought that blasted ice storm must have stopped your train, though, and that you'd be delayed 'til morning. But the phone lines are down, so we couldn't call to check. Did you really walk that whole way from the station? And with your little sister?" Nightshade jerked his head in Annie's direction.

"Train?" Peter panicked.

"Are you all right, Mr. Davies? I'm sorry, did I shake you too hard? Did you hurt yourself when you fell?"

"No, I'm all right," he lied. "Just - tired, I guess."

Samuel Nightshade looked contrite. "I'm sorry about the rude welcoming, but you must understand. I never know what those Townies are up to, nowadays. I thought you were one of 'em; you scared me pretty badly when I saw you just standing there like that. Don't know why I didn't see you coming. I must be getting old, my eyesight's starting to fade." He shook his head sadly. "Anyway, the Townies. They always come up here at night with their booze and rock-and-roll music, thinking these woods are some place for a party." Nightshade peered anxiously into the night, as if searching the shadows alongside the road for lions and Townies and bears, oh my.

"Right," Peter replied slowly, eyebrows raised.

"What's a Townie?" Annie asked vacantly, still hunched over against the cold. Her voice was small and strained.

"Locals to you, miss," Nightshade said, a haughty look coming over his face. "Anyone who isn't connected in some way with this school."

"School?" Annie came to stand alongside Peter and took his hand. The strength of her grip on his fingers told him how nervous she was.

"Well, not that you're going to be here long, I'm guessing, miss. Only two weeks, as I understand it." A look of severity came across Nightshade's face, and he wagged one finger at the girl warningly. "I feel obliged to tell you, Ms. Davies, that your being permitted to remain here until your parents return from abroad is highly unusual. This isn't a nursery, you know. If it weren't for the fact that your grandfather was Mr. Lyon . . ." Nightshade caught himself and shook his head, making a _tsk-tsk_ noise. "Well, let's just say that Mr. Lyon - and his funds - are highly respected at this establishment."

"Mr. Lyon?" Peter hoped that at some time in the near future he would be able to communicate in some fashion other than questions. Annie kicked him swiftly, a silent reminder that told him to shut up and play along.

But Samuel Nightshade hadn't heard.

"Look at me, keeping you two standing out here when you've been traveling for hours! What am I thinking'? I'm used to this nasty weather after all these years, but I dare say you aren't, comin' from England and all. I hear it's pretty mild over there. All right then, Mr. Davies, Ms. Davies, let's . . . " Nightshade paused and surveyed the ground in confusion. "Say, where's your luggage?"

Luckily, the lie came glibly to Peter's tongue. "Oh, we left it at the station," he replied, finally finding words that came easily. "Didn't want to drag it all the way up here. The people at the station said they'd send it once the roads were salted and cleared. There wasn't a place to sleep there, so we decided to walk on our own instead of waiting for morning." He crossed his fingers, hoping the fib wouldn't come back to haunt him later. But what else was there for him to say?

"Very well. Although you really shouldn't have come on your own like that so late at night. But that's for Dr. Clay to handle, not me. Some of the other boys will lend you their night things, I'm sure. If any are still awake, that is. Lights-out is at eleven, and it's well past midnight now." Nightshade dug deeply into his overcoat pocket and brought out a large key. He tuned and inserted the key into the gate lock. Rusty hinges creaked as he pushed the doors open. He stood aside and smiled, flourishing one arm grandly and making a ceremonious bow. His voice rang out in the darkness:

"Welcome to Thornhart, children."

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_MollyTheWanderer_: Dewin, as I recall, means "wizard" in Welsh. I don't think it has a "knight" connotation, however. I hope that's what it means at least! How embarrassing for me if I've been using it wrong all along . . .

_Silvergenji_: Ok, here are some answers . . . perhaps! Sorry I haven't gotten back on your story, this has been my first week of classes and I'm madly busy and exhausted. Not only did I get a speeding ticket driving back (I hate cops I hate cops I hate cops), but I forgot about a research project due Monday that I haven't started yet on how to cite law from Bosnia & Herzegovnia and Macedonia. Hardly fascinating. But tomorrow is a day I'm setting aside for your story! I've read it already (I couldn't wait that long!), but I just wanted enough time to write you a nice, thorough feedback : ).


	18. Friends Old and New

**REMNANTS OF DARKNESS**, **by Eldrice**

**Standard Disclaimers Apply: **Will Stanton, Bran Davies, Jane Drew, and the entire Dark is Rising universe belong solely tot he wonderful Susan Cooper.

**A/N**: I'm back, and so excited to have the time to devote to this story again! Not only have I updated, but I've started going back and doing lots of format revisions, so if you notice that some chapters have names and others don't, it's only temporary. From now on, chapter subdivisions will be in Roman numerals. There are also some heavy textual revisions to the first few chapters, but nothing truly affecting the story. And I guess some good news is my long hiatus has given me tons of good ideas for this story, which I can't wait to write. If you're out there and still reading, please review!

**Reader Review Responses Below.**

**Chapter Fifteen: Friends Old and New.**

"_Education is simply the soul of a society as it passes from one generation to another."_

_- G.K. Chesteron_

**I.**

Three dark figures scurried across the nighttime grounds of Thornhart Preparatory School. Samuel Nightshade led the small group up the icy cobblestone drive, scanning his flashlight left and right through the driving snow. The Davies children, heads bent against a rising wind, followed close upon his heels.

The old man kept up a steady stream of conversation as they walked, shouting to be heard over the wind.

"Spring term starts in about three weeks. Many of the boys are gone now, you understand, at home or traveling for the holidays. Still, there are always a few that stay, for some reason or another, and the headmaster insists they enroll in a winter term if they're present. A real shame, if you ask me. Boys need a longer vacation, especially during the Christmas season. But there's no arguing with Dr. Clay about. He's bound and determined to 'maintain reputation,' as he calls it."

"Uh, fantastic," Peter yelled back, burying his gloved hands in his armpits to keep them warm. "How long does winter term last?"

"Two weeks, but you're late. They started three days ago. Still, it will be a valuable opportunity for you to meet some of your classmates in. And you can be damn sure - er, 'darn' sure, excuse me - that _she_," he jerked his head in Annie's direction, "wouldn't be allowed to stay here, no matter what Mr. Lyon said, if it was normal term time."

"I'm very grateful," Annie said brightly.

"There's no reason for that," Nightshade laughed hoarsely. "There'll be little company for you here, aside from Natalie Cutter, and even less to keep you occupied during the days. Not what I would call an amusing vacation."

The conversation lagged, and they trudged on without saying more.

Peter took the opportunity to study the massive building they were approaching, just visible through the blowing snow. He knew it well enough by summer daylight as the Barry mansion, which belonged to some old man from Connecticut whom no one had ever seen. He had heard of other boys daring each other to spend the night inside, or to make their way high up into the attics. But he had never heard of anyone actually taking up the challenge, for the building was a dismal, crumbling place with an unpleasant aura about it.

But as Thornhart the mansion was drastically different. It was still dismal, but in a worn, well broken-in way that was almost cheerful. He could see smoke rising from several of the chimneys, and candles sat in every window. Christmas wreaths and lights abounded. The bushes were trimmed down into neat shapes, and not choking the walls with their encroaching tendrils. Peter could even see the flickering electric blue of a distant television through one window, which successfully dispelled any supernatural fears one could have had.

It was a breathing building, warm and living.

_And then students began to die_, Peter thought grimly.

He glanced at Annie and saw she was watching him anxiously over a scarf she had wrapped about her mouth. Their eyes met, and he knew she was wondering the exact same thing he was.

Peter sighed and wracked his brain. He didn't have much experience with this sort of thing, but he'd give it his best shot.

"So, uh, Mr. Nightshade," he began tentatively, "how was your Christmas?"

"Lovely, thank you. My wife gave me a charming red and blue-striped tie. It matches perfectly the orange and green socks she gave me last year."

"Do you have any New Year's plans?" He kept his voice carefully casual.

"Why, no, I don't. It's not my type of holiday. I prefer to spend it sitting on the couch with my feet up. Mrs. Nightshade feels the same way."

"But surely, you do something to celebrate? Next year should be very, er, interesting and - er, challenging."

Nightshade laughed. "Not when you're my age, boy. One year slips by pretty much like the rest. I see little reason to believe that 1973 will be any different from 1972."

A sharp intake of breath from Annie told him she had been listening carefully. Peter sighed in relief and didn't trouble himself with further conversation. He had discovered what he needed to know: he knew _when _they were.

No he only needed to know _how _and _why_.

They had reached the double front doors. Nightshade produced a large key, with which he opened one of the giant oak slabs. Although it must have been immensely heavy, the door swung silently open without so much as a whisper. Nightshade turned and ushered them both inside.

"Here you go, let's get in out of this nasty weather," he said, pulling the door shut as they walked through.

Peter stamped his boots to shake the snow off of them, and then looked about in awe. He reached out unconsciously, grasped Annie's shoulder, and pulled her close. They were in a massive foyer, with a double curving staircase before them and lush red carpeting beneath their feet. Aged portraits of elderly men lined the walls, and the place was lit softly by lamps that glistened gold. Although it was the dead of winter, colorful flowers bloomed in every direction he looked. It was easily the most sumptuous and intimidating place he had ever been.

"Pretty, ain't it?" Nightshade asked fondly, pulling his hat off and grinning at them. A high, wrinkled forehead was revealed, and his icy hair sprung out in all directions.

Peter and Annie nodded in stunned silence.

There was a soft whisper of feet upon carpet, and a young woman suddenly stood before them, having materialized out from among the shadows. Peter started at her sudden appearance.

"Are these the children we've been waiting for, Sam?" she asked cheerfully in a voice that sounded almost - but not quite - familiar.

"Yes, miss," Nightshade replied, somewhat shyly. "Peter and Annie Davies, newly arrived from England."

"Wonderful!" she exclaimed, looking them over in a friendly fashion. "I was worried they wouldn't make it tonight. And the winter term English teacher is safely arrived as well, so now everyone is well and accounted for."

Nightshade stared, and the two bushy eyebrows on his lined face came together to form one stern line. "What? How is that possible?" he asked sharply, all shyness gone. "I've been outside all night, and I saw no term teacher arrive."

"Maybe it's time you were getting glasses, Sam. I assure you, he's very much present. But if it makes you feel better, I think he came around to the back door, which may explain why you missed him."

Nightshade grumbled and stared at the floor. "In that case, I should be getting myself to bed."

"Do that. Get some rest. You deserve it after the long day you've had."

"Thank you, Miss Shirley." Nightshade turned to Peter and stuck his hand out. "Mr. Davies, I apologize once again, but it _has _been a pleasure meeting you." He reached out and patted Annie's black head in a manner that was somewhat hesitant, yet affectionate. "You too, Ms. Davies. Take care now."

"Thanks," Peter replied. "I will," Annie added.

Nightshade turned to his left and went through a small door in the wall. Peter watched him go nervously, feeling somewhat abandoned. He had liked the old man.

There was a brief moment of silence.

"Now then," the young woman said, turning to face them fully and clasping her hands before her. She had green eyes and bright red hair pulled loosely back into a bun. She was dressed in a tweed suit jacket and a skirt that came just to the top of her knees. A giant green bow was positioned just below her throat. "Let's get to know each other. My name is Ms. Shirley, and I am something of a headmistress/secretary here at Thornhart. Basically, I handle the living arrangements of the boys who board with us, as well as the menu and other similar matters. If either of you have any problems or questions while here with your rooms or if you require a special diet due to allergies, please come to me. Now, I already know your names, but I was hoping that you would be kind enough to give them to me yourselves." She looked at them in expectation.

"Well, my name is Peter."

"And I'm Annie."

"Wonderful. Two charming names. Excellent histories behind them both." A twinkle appeared in her somewhat roguish eyes, and she grinned, revealing suddenly just how young she was despite her mature manner. Scarcely over twenty-five, Peter realized. "And though I must insist that you call me 'Ms.' while here, I would still like to introduce myself properly this one time. I'm Madeleine Shirley.'

_No, you're not_, Peter thought wildly, recognition having finally come to him. _You're Madeleine Reynolds, the widow who lives down the street from us in the grey house with the roses. And you taught my mother how to garden, and told us the story of three murdered boys. No wonder you knew the details so well._

"Now that that's over, we must take you to your rooms. Before we get you settled for the night, however, the headmaster should meet you. He's conferring with the new teacher at present, another late arrival. Follow me, please."

She turned sharply on one pointed heel, all business once again, and walked jauntily toward a hall that led off to the right.

Peter moved to follow, but a sharp tugging on his sleeve prevented him. Annie was holding back, grasping his jacket with both hands, and staring in horror at the direction Madeleine has taken. "Peter!" she whispered urgently. "That . . . that was -"

"Mrs. Reynolds, yes I know. Now come on!"

"But - she's so _young_!"

"Look, I don't know what's happening, but just play along for now, all right? Let's go."

Annie gulped and nodded silently. They hurried in the direction Madeleine had taken, the young woman's form visible just ahead of them.

Peter tried and failed to keep track of the many halls they went through. There was a left here, a right there, two staircases up, one down, another right, two lefts. Everything rushed by in a dizzying blur. He did notice that the school was a strange combination of the ancient and modern. Medieval tapestries hung next to colored photographs, and cheap modern furniture squatted upon Oriental rugs of the richest hues. Everything was illuminated by electric light, while dark chandeliers swooped down from high ceilings.

Ms. Shirley/Mrs. Reynolds finally stopped before a small wooden door. Peter's nostrils flared, and the warm, spicy smell of cedar tickled his nose. Madeleine turned the door handle and made a sign for the Davies to stay where they were. She slipped inside, and the children heard a light murmur of voices from within. Then she returned and stood aside, motioning for them to enter. "This is the rare book room," she whispered. "The headmaster is waiting inside for you."

"Thanks,' Peter said, stepping through the open door, Annie beside him. Madeleine followed after.

Glass cases glimmered along the side walls, behind which leather-bound books perched upon wooden stands. A long bookshelf ran the back length of the room, but a lattice barrier shielded the volumes it contained. One large table was stationed in the middle of the room, with twelve chairs positioned around it. Small reading lamps with green shades produced a gentle, illuminating glow. There was a lit fireplace in one wall, with two stuffed armchairs stationed before it.

"Hello, Mr. Davies." A tall, middle-aged man stepped forward from where he had stood beside the fireplace. He wore a dark suit, and a pair of glasses were tucked into his breast pocket. He had a thin mouth, and a shock of prematurely white hair fell over his forehead. The tall shoulders stooped forward somewhat, creating the impression of a puppet dangling upon strings.

"Peter," Ms. Shirley said, "this is Dr. Clay. He's your new headmaster."

"Hi," Peter said awkwardly. He didn't think his voice trembled.

Dr. Clay turned to Ms. Shirley. "Thank you for bringing them here, Madeleine. Would you please wait outside?"

"Yes, sir." She nodded and left the room. The door closed shut behind her with a soft click.

"Well, Peter and Annie," the man took a deep breath, peering at them in undisguised curiosity. "I trust you had a safe, if somewhat inconvenienced, journey?"

Peter was aware that at least one of his eyebrows had shot up in amused alarm. Safe journey? The idea was laughable. It had started when he punched his worst enemy, and then he had escaped his own thrashing by jumping some thirty years back in time, where a man had shaken the daylights out of him, and he had met the younger version of his neighbor who had been acting so strangely recently. _Safe_?

"We had some difficulty with the train, sir," Annie volunteered once she realized her brother was desperately trying to contain his nervous laughter and had no intention of answering such a ludicrous question. "There was snow on the tracks outside of Chicago."

"Chicago?" Dr. Clay asked in confusion. "But I had been informed you were traveling from Erie?"

Annie blanched and silently cursed Peter for not stepping in. " Uh, actually, yes, we did. It's just that . . . The snow in Chicago delayed the trains from there. Which meant we had to wait, and - "

Dr.Clay waved one hand in dismissal. "Enough said. The winter transportation woes of this state are well-documented. But while we're talking, Annie, let me remind you, as I have reminded your grandfather many times already, that we are expecting you to be on your best behavior while staying here." He looked at the girl with his chin tucked in and his hands clasped behind his back. "This is an unusual situation, understand, and you must rise to the occasion. Am I making myself clear?"

Peter watched his sister stare in affronted shock before a slight curl of her lip displayed the scorn she held for being addressed in what she considered such a disrespectful manner. He had to keep himself from grinning. Annie was intelligent beyond her years, of course, and it was always funny to watch her grow offended when adults treated her as if she were any other brat.

"Perfectly clear," she said stiffly, folding her arms and glaring.

Something in her voice must have conveyed her rage, for a look of mild surprise crossed Dr. Clay's face, followed by a look of grudging respect. "Very well," he said, almost apologetically. "I shall remember that I too must be on my best behavior. We want you giving your parents a favorable report of the school they have chosen for Peter when they return from Sweden."

"I'm sure she will," Peter said.

"Excellent. In that case, our substitute term teacher just arrived tonight as well. Somewhat late, but as we had to call him in on very short notice, it was only to be expected. It was expeditious to have you brought here while I conferred with him so that I could introduce you. I believe you are countrymen."

A second figure rose from the armchair stationed nearest to Peter, but which had been facing away from him so that he had not noticed before that it was occupied. The figure turned toward the children, and the firelight illuminated a pair of friendly blue-grey eyes in a round, complacent face.

_Will_! Peter almost cried out. He choked back the glad welcoming just in time, inhaled the wrong way, and then coughed violently.

"Hello," Will Stanton said pleasantly.

Annie flushed a deep crimson before succumbing to a sudden pallor. A small squeak escaped her as she sank to the floor. Peter, eager to hide the shock that must be apparent on his face from Dr. Clay, bent down to hover over her anxiously. She impatiently brushed him aside, but not before he saw the tears of relief in her eyes.

"Are you ill, Annie?" Dr. Clay asked helplessly, nervously wringing his hands, unsure what to do. Comforting homesick little girls was not something that had been in his job description. Even girls as unsettling as this one.

"No," Annie snapped, wiping at her cheeks. "I'm tired, that's all." She scrambled to her feet. Peter took a step back and watched her warily.

"I heard you say you had a long trip today," Will Stanton said politely, one corner of his mouth twitching. "I'm sorry if my sudden appearance frightened you."

Annie glared at him in petulant resentment. "I was _not_ frightened!"

"Of course not. Pardon me."

Dr. Clay swiftly intervened before it could be discovered what words would have flown from Annie's angrily opened mouth. "Peter, this is Mr. Stanton. He's here only on a temporary basis, teaching our winter term English class. Our full-time teacher decided to squander his vacation on some trip he won to Aruba on a radio show." He sniffed in academic disdain.

"Hi," Peter said.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Peter. I'm sure we'll have ample opportunity to talk to each other while here."

Dr. Clay turned to Will. "Do we have any unfinished business, Mr. Stanton?"

"No, doctor. I believe we've discussed everything."

"In that case, I believe Madeleine has already showed you where you will be staying?"

"Yes. But before I go, may I just say that it has been a great honor to meet you, sir. I've heard only the most complimentary things about Thornhart. I'm looking forward to my time here."

"As am I, Mr. Stanton. I've been told your teaching techniques are somewhat . . . unorthodox. I look forward to seeing you in action."

Will nodded and smiled. He picked up a battered leather briefcase and walked to the door. He turned the handle and took one step out before turning back suddenly, as if he had forgotten something. "Oh, it was a pleasure to meet you as well, Peter. I'm sure I will be seeing you very soon in class." And he was gone.

Dr. Clay turned back to the Davies children. "Peter and Annie, if you would leave me now, Ms. Shirley is waiting to show you to your rooms. Peter, you will be with the other boys in the dorms, of course. Annie, you'll be staying next door to Ms. Shirley in a spare room. I wish you both goodnight."

"Goodnight," the children replied.

"Oh, and remember you _will _be starting class tomorrow, Peter. No rest for the wicked, as they say, eh? But I hope your next four years will be a time of great intellectual and spiritual growth. Thornhart _does _have a reputation for turning out only the finest, you know."

**II.**

Peter couldn't sleep. The dorm bunk was narrow and hard and perfectly situated to magnify the snores of the boy sleeping above him. He wished he knew the kid's name so he could give the bunk a good hard kick and hiss at him to be quiet. But everyone had already been sleeping when Ms. Shirley had ushered him into the room, and there had been no time for polite introductions.

He had been unable to talk to Annie after leaving the book room. Ms. Shirley had taken them in tow and dragged them cheerfully at a headlong pace through more dizzying Thornhart halls. The Davies had been able to exchange glances that could have been meaningful several times, but they didn't know enough to have something meaningful to convey. Peter had been able only to grimace and shrug at Annie's waggled eyebrows.

And now here he was, shivering in a cold dorm room at an all boy's boarding school with an impending rash of murders hanging over the place. Oh yeah, and all this was happening some fifteen years before he was even supposed to be _born_.

Peter had heard of things like this happening to other people. It was called insanity.

Then there was Will Stanton.

The Old One's sudden appearance that evening hadn't surprised Peter, not really. After all, the whole evening was only one crazy thing of many that had happened recently. And since all these crazy things were tied to Will Stanton in some manner, it was only right that he should have been there. Still, thinking about the whole situation was enough to make Peter's stomach flop over funnily.

He didn't even know how he himself had gotten here. He reached below the neck of the pajamas Ms. Shirley had thrust upon him and felt the chain and the leather thong lying against his chest. He still had the knife and the stone Will had given them. He felt the coldness of the stone and the warmth of the leather sheath against his bare skin. Clearly, something must have happened when he had touched the stone, but what? And how? And what about Stan? Why hadn't he come along for the ride? And what had he thought when skinny Davies simply vanished, leaving nothing more than a wisp of air in his clenched fist?

Peter crossed his arms behind his head and stared at the bunk above him in fierce contemplation.

But back to Will. How could his presence be explained? Were all Old Ones capable of jumping through time at will? After all, Peter really had no idea all old Will Stanton truly was. He could've been born hundreds of years ago, and then simply traveled forward through the centuries to grow up besides Bran Davies and Jane Drews. Maybe he had a Quantum Leap time machine. Maybe his real name was Scott Bakula. Maybe he was a giant alien bug who had stolen a human body in order to propagate his evil colonialist conquest of Earth and its denizens.

_Davies, you _really _need to get some sleep._

**Reader Review Responses:**

**_GoldenRat_**: Wow, high praise! Thanks! blushes I don't think it's merited, but I'll do my best to live up to it!

**_sasori_**: Yay, another Jane/Bran shipper! We _are_ a rare breed, aren't we? Strange, isn't it, considering it's such a rational position? Anyway, thanks for reading!


	19. A Morning Rush

**REMNANTS OF DARKNESS, by Eldrice**

**Standard Disclaimers Apply: **Will Stanton, Bran Davies, Jane Drew, and the entire _Dark Is Rising_ universe belong solely to the wonderful Susan Cooper.

**A/N**: Longer than usual. Hope it doesn't drone on too much. Please let me know when I do.

**Reader Review Responses Below.**

**Chapter Fifteen: A Morning Rush**

"_The Founding Fathers in their wisdom decided that children were an unnatural strain on parents. So they provided jails called schools, equipped with tortures called an education."_

_- John Updike_

**I.**

"Hell, I don't know. He must've gotten in late last night."

"I didn't hear him come in. Did you?"

"How could I? I'm sure you were snoring like Zeus, as always."

"Hey, toad-face, maybe if you got your nose out of a _book_ every now and then and went to some parties, your delicate ears wouldn't be so sensitive to – "

"Come on, Sleek, I'm just trying to get some studying done before class. You should be too. I know you've done nothing the past week. And we've got Manatee Mantey this morning. He'll eat us _alive_ if he gets the chance."

There was a scornful snort of disdain.

"So let's just leave the new guy alone, all right?"

"Peter."

"Huh?"

"That's the new kid's name: Peter Davies. Professor Barnes told me a few days ago."

Peter, hearing his name, groaned and buried his head in a pillow.

"Dammit, Sleek, you woke him up!"

"And so what? He's gotta get up soon anyway. Why don't you give him a good whollop, see if he moves."

"You hit him if you want to talk to him. I'll have nothing to do with it."

"Fine."

A pillow smashed into Peter's slumbering face.

"Not that hard, jerk!"

"Hey, Davies, rise and shine!"

"What's going on?" Peter muttered, feeling his lips move against something cotton and fuzzy. "Stop it." He must still be dreaming. Such weird dreams he'd had last night . . . something about fire . . . _I should start exercising more_, he thought vaguely.

"Hey, Davies, I'm Jeff. The guy who's being such a priss over there in the corner is Mat. Welcome to the world of the living."

"Go 'hey' yourself." Peter had no idea what he was saying. Who were these guys? And how did they get into his house? Eyes still squeezed tightly shut, he rolled over and pulled his warm goose-down quilt over his face. Ow. He was sore all over, an ache roosting deep-down in his bones.

"Uh uh, none of that. Wake up." Someone poked him in the ribs.

There was no warm goose-down quilt, just an itchy wool blanket that tickled his nose. Peter's eyes fluttered open.

The curious face of a complete stranger was staring directly into his own.

"What the hell!" he shouted, bolting upright. His head crashed into inconveniently placed iron bed post. He cursed and clapped one hand to his forehead. He was in the bottom half of a bunk bed; the post that had attacked his head was the sagging support of the bed above him. A thin grey blanket, the kind found in cheap hotel rooms beneath the comforter, covered his legs. He was wearing a pair of grey pajamas embroidered with a Gothic letter 'T.' The iron frame of the bed was old and rusting. The walls were white plaster covered with the little yellow spots left behind when poster tape is removed. Four desks, three of them overflowing with papers and books, were squeezed in among and around the beds and dressers. Everything was gritty and real, and had the unmistakable appearance – and odor – of a school dorm room.

_This cannot be real. You are still sleeping. There is no way it could've been real._

The unknown boy whose face had caused Peter such shock took a few steps back, grinning like a manic idiot and adjusting a rumpled suit jacket and tie. "Morning, Sleeping Beauty!" He walked over to a window and pulled the vinyl blinds up with a snap. Bright sunlight flooded the room.

Peter blinked and shaded his eyes against the sudden glare, trying to get a better look at the boy. He saw green eyes laughing back at him, and a wide mouth grinning loosely as one hand was raised to rake back limp, flaxen blond hair. Acne spotted the chin and forehead. Peter's gaze shifted and saw a second boy sitting on the bunk across from him, poring over a large book. He glanced up briefly and gave Peter a solemn, apologetic smile. His jacket and tie were immaculate, and the blanket and sheets on his bed were folded and tucked into the corners precisely. "Good morning, Peter Davies," he said quietly. "I hope you slept well, you must've gotten in late last night. Watch out for that beam there next time. That looked like it hurt." His words had a slight foreign inflection Peter couldn't quite place.

Peter knew then that this was real, knew that he was in a time and place unknown, with no immediate plans for returning home. The pain exploding in his head told him as much, which only served to remind him of the strange, uncanny happenings outside the church last night.

"Oooh," he moaned, raising both hands delicately but not touching where it was sore. "Am I bleeding?"

"Nah," drawled Jeff, peering closer with a mock-scholarly air. "You've got a little cut on your forehead, but it doesn't look like it bled at all. Crummy way to wake up, though, especially on your first day. What a welcome! Hey there, welcome to Thornhart. BAM! How about a nice clobbered head?"

Peter stared in astonishment and started to rub his forehead absently. "I'm at Thornhart?" he asked, not really thinking about what he was saying.

Jeff rolled his eyes and leaned one elbow against a nearby dresser. "We've got a real genius as our new roommate here, Mat buddy. You've got competition."

Peter blinked.

"And just so you know," Jeff said, pushing off from the dresser and flapping his arms in a grandiose manner. "Thornhart is the finest establishment worldwide for the cultivation of young _gentlemen_. This is where the privileged, the few, the disgustingly wealthy come to learn the ways of the Secret Order of the Carnivorous Cave-Dwelling Caterpillar, to whom we shall devote our entire – "

"Shut up, Jeff," the reading boy said flatly. "You're making yourself look like an ass."

"Yeah, but you already call me that everyday as it is! May as well live up to my rep."

"But we don't want Peter to know that right away." The reading boy slammed his book shut and swung his legs off his bed. He stood up, and Peter saw that he was tall, taller even than himself, though they must be something of the same age. The boy gave Peter a friendly grin and held out his hand. "Hey, I'm Mat. That crazy guy jumping on the desk is Jeff Kettering, but he likes us to call him 'Sleek.'" He winked humorously at Peter.

"That's right!" Jeffrey "Sleek" Kettering laughed.

"Hi," Peter replied, automatically sticking his hand out in return. They shook.

"Glad you're here, Peter," Mat said in a smooth, practiced voice. "We heard a couple days ago you'd be coming soon. It's pretty exciting. It's just too bad you got stuck with crazy roommates." He laughed in Sleek's direction.

"Hey, Mat," Sleek puffed. "Speak for yourself! _I _think Peter's the luckiest guy on earth to be crashing with us, so he doesn't need you and your . . . holy shit!"

Peter jumped, not knowing whether the unexpectedly forceful epithet was an actual insult or a joke.

Mat also looked surprised, and stared for several seconds before forcing himself to laugh. "That was lame, Sleek," he drawled, with only the merest hint of a warning unmistakable under his words. "Where's your wit gone?" He glanced sidelong at Peter and gave a quick shake of his head telling the other boy not to mind what Jeff had said.

Jeff shot a quick guilty look in Mat's direction, but he wasn't really paying attention. He was staring at Peter; and Peter, who had encountered this stare countless times before, needed only a few seconds to realize what it was that had caused his sudden outburst.

But by then it was too late.

Jeff grabbed Peter's shoulder and pulled him around so they faced each other completely. "Mat, man," he muttered, "look at this!"

"What?" Mat walked closer.

"His _eyes_."

Peter blinked and flinched away.

Mat pushed Jeff aside and peered into Peter's face, thoughtlessly reaching out one hand to grasp Peter's chin and turn it to the light. He stared, brow furrowed, while Peter did his best to stare back and not be the first to look away.

Jeff laughed nervously. "I've never seen yellow eyes before, Davies. Weird. And your eyelashes . . . you look like a bird."

"Jeff!" Mat said softly. And there was the warning again. Peter heard it unconsciously, and for some reason thought of the way Will Stanton sometimes checked his father's wilder flights of fancy.

"That's just the way they are," he said bluntly, shrugging one shoulder and deliberately jerking his head so Mat's hand was forced to fall away.

Mat let the hand fall to his aide and stepped back, looking somewhat ashamed. "Sorry, Peter," he muttered. "It's just that . . . well . . . uh, you probably know."

"Yeah, I know."

A new idea had exploded in Jeff's mind. "Are you trippin', Davies? I mean, it's all right if you are, we won't tell. Right, Mat? We're no snitches. And I've got an older brother who's really into all this weird stuff, and I've seen some pretty freaky stuff things to him. I've never seen his eyes change color or anything like that, but, you know, anything's possible, and –"

"He's not high, Sleek," Mat said patiently, rolling his eyes.

Peter couldn't keep from laughing. This was one reaction he had never gotten. He wondered idly if any of his Wraithfell classmates thought he was a perpetual stoner. "No, I've never done drugs. It's just the way my eyes are. My dad's are the same." And currently, my dad is probably twelve years old or so, living in Wales.

"Well, that's good," Jeff breathed a sigh of relief. "You had me worried there. There was this kid last year, who got sent home when they found –"

"Hey." Mat was back at his bunk, bending over and gathering his books together. "You know, it's time we started to go. We don't want to be late. By the way, Davies, what's it to be? Pete? Petey? P.J? Chose your prenomen." The message was clear: the discussion about the eyes and everything associated with it was over.

"Uh, just Peter's fine. Definitely not Petey. Who's that?" He pointed to an empty bunk that had a faded and obviously well-loved Jim Brown poster taped to the wall behind it.

"Huh?" Mat's head swiveled. "Oh, right. That's Roger. He's back in Connecticut, but he'll be around in a few weeks. You'll like him. He's football captain, too, so he can give you some pointers if you decide to go out next fall. They do preliminary tryouts in May."

"Wonderful," Peter muttered. He appraised his rumpled pajamas and hopefully studied a trunk that was placed directly underneath his bunk.

"Is that mine?" he asked, pointing hesitantly.

Jeff glanced at him sideways. "Uh, yeah. That's yours, buddy." It was clear he thought his new roommate was something of a dim fellow, yellow eyes or no.

"Oh. Ok." Peter walked over, dragged the heavy trunk out, and flipped open the lid. Carefully folded inside were numerous grey slacks, collared shirts, and garnet sweaters. A piece of folded cream paper lay on top of it all, with merely the initials M.L. written upon it in a neat script. Peter pulled out what he thought he needed and, somewhat nervously, dressed himself in a rush. He'd never lived in a dorm before and did not have fond memories of the school locker rooms.

Luckily, the clothes fit perfectly.

"Breakfast?" he huffed, hastily stuffing his foot into one black shoe. He wouldn't bother with the potential disaster of a tie.

Jeff tossed him a banana and a bagel seemingly conjured out of thin air. "Eat this. Breakfast was hours ago. We never go, it's way too early. Only the suck-ups bother."

"Don't worry about anything today, Peter," Mat was saying as he searched under his bunk and reappeared with a limp-looking box of cereal and a couple of chocolate bars. He blew a wisp of dusty hair out of his eyes and grinned. "The teachers won't expect anything of you since you don't have books yet. Just sit back and listen. We all have the same classes for winter term, so you can just follow us around. It's never hard, anyway. Winter term, I mean, not following us around. It can't be, right, since only about a fourth of the school is here? It's really just Thornhart's way of babysitting those of us who live too far away to go home for the holidays."

"Or whose parents hop off to Europe without them," Jeff muttered bitterly.

"I didn't say anything, Sleek. And Monaco can wait. Anyway, Peter, I've got notebooks and pencils and stuff like that you can borrow if you don't have any yet. Everything has to be regulation, you know."

"Um, can't I get out of it?" Peter asked.

"We've all got to go, Davies," Jeff sighed with exaggerated patience. "Otherwise, it's detention for sure. And you don't what _that_."

"No, I didn't mean I want to skip. Well, I do, but I have a good reason. You see, my sister's here, and –"

Peter had never seen two jaws drop more suddenly.

"Huh?" Mat gaped.

Jeff was grinning his madcap grin again, poking Mat in the shoulder. "Oh ho, Mattie! Another girl for the holidays! Wonder what Cutter will say. Maybe she'll get _jealous_ –"

"Shut up . . . you!"

"Oh, trouble arrives for Mattie and his girlie when the mysterious sister of a new student enters Thornhart's hallowed halls . . ."

Peter couldn't help laughing at the bright red flush staining Mat's cheeks. He decided to put an end to his new friend's – _friend? _ – torture. "She's not really here to stay," he interrupted.

"Well, Cutter never stays for long either. Hasn't stopped Mat before!" Jeff grabbed his roommate in a headlock, and the dark head disappeared behind one arm.

Peter rapidly tried to recall what Samuel Nightshade and Dr. Clay had said last night. "My parents are in Switzerland, you see, and my godfather Mr. Leon arranged for my sister to stay here until they get back like two weeks from now."

"Two weeks of lovin'!" squealed Jeff delightedly.

"And, uh, she's just seven years old, you know."

This only made Jeff laugh harder. Peter could just hear Mat's muffled shouts as he struggled to get free. Obviously, Peter thought, this was something that could go on indefinitely. With one eyebrow raised doubtfully, he inched toward the door. "In fact, I think I'll go find her now . . . see you later!" And he sprinted out into the hall.

**II. **

He ran through the unknown Thornhart halls. As they were numerous and long, there was a lot of running to do. His legs gave out before his breathing, as his muscles began to whine a tiny protest that threatened to escalate into a full-out blood-curdling scream if he didn't stop soon. He ignored it and kept running. A few students were scurrying to class, but only two called out rude comments as he flew past. Peter ignored them. He had to find Annie and talk this over. Where was she?

He ran heedless of where he was going. The third time he passed a faded portrait of a bewigged gentleman he wondered if he should stop and ask someone for directions.

He careened around a corner and collided headlong into someone coming the opposite way. Books scattered across the floor. Paper fluttered through the air. Peter's feet scrambled and slipped, and he tumbled down like a collapsing windmill. The other boy promptly followed suit and landed awkwardly on Peter's back.

"Oof!" he grunted.

"Ugh!" the stranger eloquently replied.

They were entwined in a heap in the middle of the hall. Peter thrashed his legs and disentangled himself from the other youth, who scrambled hastily to his feet.

"Watch where you're going!" he snapped angrily as he hurriedly tried to collect his scattered papers.

Peter didn't answer. Instead, he reached out and seized the boy's shoulders, shaking them roughly.

"Listen. I'm looking for someone. My sister. She's staying here. Look, I know it's weird, but I can't explain it now. Can you tell me where to find her?"

"Huh?" The boy's shoulders were light and bony; Peter felt as if he were shaking a leaf.

"My sister! Where would she sleep the night?"

The boy spoke through rattling teeth. "I won't say a thing till you let go of me!"

Peter let go abruptly. The boy stumbled back and tossed his head in pride while he swiftly rearranged his flowered blouse.

It was the blouse that made Peter reassess the current situation. He swiftly appraised the pixiesh haircut and the pointed chin and the somewhat heavy-lidded hazel eyes snapping sparks of anger in his direction. "You're a girl!"

"A you're a moron!" she spat. "Get outta my way!"

The words poured freely from Peter's mouth. "Hey, I know who you must be; I've heard people talk about you. You're Natalie Cutter. Wow, I'm so lucky to have run into to you - er, well not literally, I didn't mean – never mind. Anyway, you must've met my sister Annie. I really need to talk to her. Can you tell me where she is?"

Natalie Cutter, not denying her identity, finished stuffing books into her canvas bag and shrugged her shoulders, which made the earrings dangling from her lobes jingle merrily. "Maybe I do and maybe I don't."

Peter had never aspired to be a gentleman. And at the moment the thing he wanted to do most was take Natalie Cutter's skinny little neck and wring it like a dishcloth. _Patience is a virtue_, he recited ten times as his mantra before trusting himself to speak. "Just tell me where should would be, please? It's really important I see her."

Natalie raised a thick eyebrow in his direction. "I can't imagine why," she said loftily. "You're supposed to be in class, right now, just like I am. Actually, you're supposed to be there even _more_ than me. I only have to go to keep myself out of my uncle's way. You're actually enrolled here."

"Your uncle!"

"Yeah. Dr. Clay. I spend holidays with him. A dreadful bore, but a sweet guy when you get to know him. He's my only living relation, of course, but that's a story for another day. Anyway, if you'll excuse me, I have a lecture to attend." She spun on her heel and started walking away.

"Hey, wait!" Peter called hastily, grabbing her elbow and turning her about to face him. Before he could discover what angry thing she was about to spew at him, he plastered the most humble expression he could imagine on his face. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have run into you and all that. I wasn't watching where I was going and – and at least I could have helped you pick up your books, right?"

"You certainly could have," she agreed, looking at him expectantly. Peter sighed. This girl wasn't making things any easier for him.

"I'm sorry."

A twitch at her mouth broadened into a humorous smile, and suddenly she wasn't mean or impatient at all. Rather, she had a dimple in her left cheek. "Well, seeing as Annie was nearly crazy this morning wondering about you – she wanted to come find you too, you know, but I said it wasn't a good idea for her to wander strange halls alone – I just might accept your apology and tell you what I know."

"I'd really appreciate it if you did."

"She's staying with me, by the way, not Ms. Shirley. But our rooms are right next to each other, so it almost amounts to the same thing anyway. If you follow this hall till it dead ends, take a right, go up the first flight of stairs on your right, and you'll be at the library. About a hundred feet down the hall is a door leading to the fourth floor, where we're at. It's labeled 'Matron's Residence.' Take the stairs and go down the hall. We're the second door on the left."

"Thanks, Natalie," Peter took her hand and shook it awkwardly, not really knowing what else to do. "You're the –" what was a genuine 1970s compliment? What would Topher Grace say? "The grooviest chick I know."

She seemed taken aback and looked at him askance for several seconds. Then she blushed. "Smooth! But most people here – except one – would disagree with you, Peter Davies. But I'm glad you think so anyway. Oh, and call me Cutter. Everyone else here does and you'll stick out if you don't."

"All right." He patted her shoulder hesitantly, anxious to escape without seeming too rude. His mind mentally ran through the directions again. _Second door on the left. Library. I think I've got it_. "Glad I met you."

Cutter rolled her eyes. "Get outta here," she laughed. "And don't worry, I won't tell anyone I saw you. Skipping on your first day, huh? That's guts."

"Well," Peter stammered, and was off running again.

**III.**

He found the door marked "Matron's Residence" easily enough and sprinted up the cramped and dusty stairs. He halted outside the second door to the left, fearful that somehow the one person who was real to him in all this insubstantial nonsense would be gone, missing.

He peered through the door that had been left open a crack. There she was, very much alive and present, perched in a chair before her window, gazing out at the Thornhart landscape with her chin propped in one hand. Peter could see the glittering, snow-laden trees through the window, but the sun was shining blazing and the icicles hanging from the eaves were slowly dripping. The cold snap must've broken.

"Hey, kiddo."

The dark head turned towards him. For a mere second, the eyes were shadowed, as if they belonged to an old woman. But then Annie smiled and all shadows fled. "Peter!"

She flung herself off her chair and crashed into his stomach with a flurry of arms and legs. "Oh, I'm so glad to see you," she whispered. "I couldn't sleep last night, I just lay there . . . wondering, I guess. About everything. I even cried a bit, which you know I _never_ do. Luckily, Natalie thought it was just homesickness – which I guess it was. She told me this great story about an orphan girl who travels to a foreign land and gets kidnapped by the native king. It was thrilling, because she gets a magic sword and saves the kingdom and, of course, marries the king in the end." She sniffed and looked up at him with somewhat abashed eyes. "She's real nice, by the way. I like her a lot."

Peter laughed and tousled her head. "Sure, nice like a hungry python." _Now that's unfair_, his conscious told him. _She did tell you how to get here, you know_.

But Annie's eyes had brightened and she clapped her hands together. "You've met!"

"We, uh, ran into each other. But enough about Cutter, Annie. We need to talk."

"No kidding," she said, scrambling up on a bed and crossing her legs. "By the way, good job playing 'detective' with Mr. Nightshade last night."

"Thanks, sis."

"Still, I came up with a different technique and just asked Natalie this morning what year it was, just to make sure. She thought I was a little weird, even though I tried to play it cute."

"Something our roommates seem to have in common. Not the cute part. But what did she say, by the way?"

"Oh, 1973 as well. Peter, this is pretty weird, right? I mean, nothing like this has ever happened to _me_ before, but you _are_ so much older." She fluttered her eyelashes at him.

Peter laughed. Trust Annie to think this whole adventure was simply another perk of growing up. "No," he said, "I can safely say I've never heard of this happening to anyone before."

"Great! I was hoping we were the first."

Peter threw himself down on the bed and rolled onto his back. He lay spread-eagled and watched a lady-bug crawl across the ceiling. The suit jacket he had hastily grabbed on his way out was chafing at his neck; he grimaced and pulled it away from his skin. He didn't know the best way of broaching the subject consuming him without frightening his sister. "Annie? You – you remember how Mrs. Reynolds was at our house the other day, right? And how she said –"

"I know!" Annie got up on her knees and started bouncing. "Murders! Murders, Peter! Can you believe how exciting this is! Maybe we'll get to solve the crime or stop the murderer from committing his heinous deeds."

He stared at her in astonishment. No one – no, not even Annie – had the right to be that gleeful when confronted with something so nefarious. She must've been reading too many detective and ghost stories.

"But it doesn't make sense!" he said, trying to make his voice as flat and reasonable as possible. "I mean, why? What about Muscharch – or what he put into motion, rather, since he's dead now. Will said we were supposed to be . . . what was it? 'Unpersuading' him? I don't get it. And most importantly of all, why us?"

"What do you mean, why us? Aren't we good enough?"

"Oh, sure, we're smart and, I guess, brave. But so's Jude, Will's oldest nephew who's in the RAF, and he's over eighteen to boot. I'm sure Will knows plenty of people he could've recruited for time-traveling detective sleuths. Why travel half-way across the world to enlist the Davies kids, one who's a science dork and the other who's a seven-year-old girl!"

Annie was getting angry. He could see it in the way she stared at him, very quietly, with her eyes wide. "Don't say things like that, Peter!" she snapped. She paused thoughtfully. "Besides," she said somewhat more calmly, "Jude would have trouble getting leave."

There was an awkward pause, while Peter pouted and Annie plucked at the bed quilt. "Look," she finally said in a hurry. "Neither of us knows what's happening. We really should just find Will and ask him."

Peter thought that was a fine compromise. "All right. Let's go find him then. It shouldn't be too hard, how large can this place be?"

They were just heading down the staircase when they both heard footsteps creaking up the steps before them. Before Peter could grab Annie and turn them about, the slim figure of Madeleine Shirley appeared in the sun-dappled shadows, her face an angry storm cloud.

"There you are! I thought I might find you here. I could not believe my ears when your roommates told me they didn't know where you were. Skipping class! On your first day! No, I told Mr. Mantey, it simply cannot be. It's incomprehensible. But, sadly, I was mistaken."

"Hi, Ms. Shirley," Peter grinned desperately. Apparently he wasn't charming enough, for one of her hands fell heavily upon his shoulder.

"What were you thinking? I'm sure they wouldn't let you get away with things like this even in those English schools you've gone to, although I hear the discipline can be scandalous. But here at Thornhart you must learn that absence – _and tardiness_ – is completely unacceptable. Do you hear me?"

"Yes," Peter said, apologetic pleading dripping from his voice. "But, you see, I had to find Annie here –"

"He really did, miss. I was homesick. Crying like a baby. It's all my fault."

"Quiet! Both of you! No one here's interested in excuses. Now, I like you, Peter, I really do. _But_ _this cannot be tolerated_. You must go to Mr. Mantey's class at once. He's furious. Of all the teachers for you to antagonize, it had to be that bloated, self-centered . . . oh, never mind. Now, I've done what I could to calm him down, but you must get there _at once_. Come on!"

Madeleine grabbed one child with each of her hands and dragged them bodily down the stairs. Annie let a small squeak and stumbled as she just barely managed to keep her footing. "Where are you taking _me_?" she gasped.

Madeleine declined to answer. In fact, she didn't say another word until they had reached a door on the second floor that was clearly the entrance to one of the Thornhart classrooms. Once there, she immediately released her grip, grabbed Peter's shoulders and whirled him around to face her, whipped out a tie from someplace, and knotted it tightly about his neck, nearly strangling him. Peter choked and raised one hand to loosen the thing as best he could.

"Now listen," she hissed. "I'm giving you this advice for your own good, Mr. Davies. You get in there and apologize, and spend as much time as you can kissing that man's butt. You got me? Get in there!" And she shoved an astonished Peter through the door.

**Reader Review Responses**

_GoldenRat_: If you want the answer to your question, you just need to check the copyright page of your TDIR copy ; ).

_Sasori_: Thanks! Too many OCs in this chapter, but hopefully that will be changing soon. And you're right about the music terminology, too. How silly of me! I _do_ know better, I swear.

_MollyTheWanderer_: Sorry! Didn't mean to be exclusive! Welcome to the club : ) Yeah, and I thought Will was pretty obvious, too. Merriman's coming up soon, I promise, but give me a couple more chapters!


	20. Blood Will Tell

**REMNANTS OF DARKNESS, by Eldrice **

**Standard Disclaimers Apply: **Will Stanton, Bran Davies, Jane Drew, and the entire _Dark Is Rising_ universe belong solely to the wonderful Susan Cooper.

**A/N: **Djibouti actually became a state in 1977. But an old prof of mine always had this great way of poking _affectionate _fun at Djibouti, and I just couldn't resist following in such a noble tradition.

**Reader Review Responses Below**

**Chapter Sixteen: Blood Will Tell**

_Blood will tell, but often it tells too much._

_- Don Marquis_

**I.**

Peter emerged from the math classroom forty-five minutes later, unscathed and triumphant. He was flanked on both sides by Mat and Jeff, who were grinning like fools and running a brilliant interference between Peter and the modest crowd of admirers, all of whom wanted to congratulate the newest member of their small community on what everyone agreed had been a very thorough rout.

Peter laughed as the friendly hands clapped him on the shoulders. Nothing like this had _ever_ happened at Wraithfell Middle.

And thinking back on the past hour or so, he couldn't stop grinning.

Stumbling into the math room, he had seen a very short, very fat man standing before a large green chalkboard, explaining a complicated theorem. The man had looked up immediately upon Peter's entrance and frowned, small eyes blinking furiously.

"Well," he had said softly in a voice ridiculously high and thin. "This _must_ be the elusive Mr. Peter Davies."

Peter, who had been torn between the dangerously conflicting emotions of fury and guilt and panic, had figured that the best response was simply to walk toward an empty seat near the back of the room. He did so, uncomfortably conscious that all eyes were on him. He saw Mat and Jeff seated near the front, watching him sympathetically as he stalked past. And there was Cutter, tucked away in a back corner, twirling a pencil and grinning at him with wicked delight. Her gaze sought his, and she shrugged her shoulders apologetically.

Mr. Mantey's voice had reached out like a dead branch and snagged Peter as he walked down the row of desks. "Not so fast, Mr. Davies."

Peter had turned around warily, asking "Yes?" in an impatient tone that may have come across has somewhat snippity.

Apparently it had. Mr. Mantey's smirk had frozen for one second before broadening into an unctuous smile. "Since class attendance isn't a priority for you, I must conclude that you are already perfectly familiar with inverse functions." He had gestured at the chalkboard. "Since that's the case, would you please come up front and demonstrate to the class your boundless proficiency by finding the value of ƒ1(ƒ-1(a))?" A piece of dirty chalk, smudged grey and worn by use, had been held out to Peter in one chubby hand.

Peter's gaze had raked the chalkboard once, which had been covered from top to bottom with rows upon rows of cramped mathematical symbols.

"Er, no thanks," he had said somewhat thoughtlessly, scratching his head and sliding into an empty desk.

The tips of Mr. Mantey's ears had reddened. "I'm sorry, Mr. Davies," he said, the cold sarcasm cracking like a whip. "But do what you are told. Without comment. Now, come up front."

Peter had felt a quiet rage building up within him at the obviously mean and vengeful attempt to humiliate him. Mr. Mantey knew that the problem he was asking him to solve was ridiculously complex, and not something a new student could be expected to tackle on the first day.

Still . . . hadn't he seen something like this in a library book he had borrowed one rainy afternoon . . .?

Ah, yes.

"Why?" he had asked coolly.

"So the whole class may benefit from your intellect, of course. Now, please."

"Don't be silly," Peter had scoffed, fixing Mr. Mantey with a bright yellow stare. He wasn't very good at verbal sparring, but he knew there was always one way at least he could intimidate an enemy . . . and mathematics was not a battlefield on which he would willingly yield ground. "I can tell you the answer from here."

The other students in the class had shifted restlessly. Peter had seen Mat turn completely around in his seat and stare at him apprasingly. Jeff's eyebrows had shot up, and Natalie Cutter had stared at Mat, clearly surprised that _he_ was so surprised.

Mr. Mantey had given a small, smug smile. "I'm sorry, Mr. Davies, but calculators aren't allowed in this class. They're a crutch, used only by the weak."

Peter had spread out his hands. "You can see I don't have a calculator, not that a calculator could solve that, anyway. I'll show you my work if you want, but I don't need to. The answer's 1/2."

"You can't know that." The teacher's response had been quick and flat and sure.

"But it is. Check your notes."

Mr. Mantey had walked to his desk, where he shuffled through a pile of wrinkled papers. He had apparently found the one he wanted and read through the work, his lips moving soundlessly. Then he had looked up at Peter strangely, who had been able to tell from the look in the teacher's eyes that he had given the correct answer.

"Oh, and by the way, you made a mistake on that example problem on the left-hand side. You forgot to multiply the resulting integral by -1 when you switched the limits. The correct answer is actually 1 – 1/cos 1."

It had been the perfect coup de grace. There had been no resulting uproar from the students, no exuberantly tossed caps or shrill cries of victory. Still, their glee had been amply evident in the complete and utter stillness that fell over the room. Not a single paper had rustled nor one pencil rolled. Peter had seen one boy shaking, his hands gripping the edges of his desk desperately while he firmly bit his lip, his face turning a marvelous shade of purple because he didn't dare breath for fear of laughing.

Mr. Mantey had fallen silent. Red-faced, he had turned to the board and corrected his careless error. And although he had continued to glare at Peter throughout the lesson, he had said nothing more to the black-haired boy with the funny bird's eyes, obviously reasoning that this was an opponent best tackled another day.

But once the bell had rung, Peter had become fair game for his classmates, who had swept him safely from the room before the jubilation began.

"Whoowhee!" Jeff laughed, capering about. "Did you _see_ the fat-man's face, Mat? Did you? I thought the Manatee was going to explode!" "He was certainly less than pleased," Mat conceded, giving Peter a grin. "_I_ thought he was going to bite your head off, Davies. If he could, he would have torn you limb – from – limb. C'mon Cutter, don't you agree?" "I"ll let my uncle know he hires such bloody-thirsty teachers. Maybe we should post guards during lessons." The girl appeared suddenly on Mat's far side. Mat gave her only one quick glance and a welcoming smile, but Peter saw a slow flush start up his throat. Several students straggled behind the group of four, nudging each other, whispering, and pointing in Peter's direction. Now that the initial euphoria had worn off, the unusual attention made Peter somewhat nervous, and he thought uneasily of the knife and blue-green stone concealed beneath his sweater. "Hey," he interrupted Jeff's antics, anxious to change the subject. "Where are we going now, by the way? I mean, I can't be late _twice_ in one day." Jeff guffawed. "So what if you are? Just give Barnes a complete oral dissertation on the economic and political impact of the Falkland Islands dispute on British domestic policies, and all will be forgiven. In fact, I think you should _never_ go to class." Peter shot Mat and Cutter a pleading look. 

"World history, with Mr. Barnes," Mat said, casually coming to the rescue. "He's the best, Peter, you'll love his class. He studied at Oxford, so he's wicked smart. Published and everything. He specializes in the British colonial period, although we don't get to talk about that much in lectures." There was a curious gleam his eye as he spoke that Peter couldn't quite believe was caused solely by academic enthusiasm.

"Oh god, Mat, not that old chip _again_. Don't pay any attention to him, Peter. He's just trying to get you into a debate on the evils of Western imperialism."

"I was not, Sleek!" Mat protested in a somewhat affronted voice.

"Look, all you really need to know about Barnes, Peter, is that he's _cool_."

Natalie Cutter shrugged, but said nothing.

Jeff continued. "We get away with everything in his class. Well, except sloppy work, of course. But if you want to bombard Mat with spitballs during the lecture, go right ahead. In fact, I think I'll help."

This was not a challenge Mat could let pass and resulted in the two friends laughing and becoming completely engrossed in threatening each other with various disgusting retaliations, each one more nauseating than the last. As a result, Peter found himself somewhat out of it, walking several steps behind them next to Cutter, silent and embarrassed, remembering their awkward introduction of the morning. He wondered what they should talk about, but then remembered the dismissive shrug.

"Don't you like Mr. Barnes, Cutter?"

She turned to him with a slightly embarrassed laughed, tucking one short wayward strand of hair behind an ear. "Oh, you noticed that?"

"If you mean the loathsome sneer that came over your face when his name was mentioned, yeah, I did."

"Right. Uh, no, I don't really like him. In fact, I think he's a rotten teacher. But I've argued with Mat and Jeff about it long enough that I know I'll never change their minds."

"What?" Peter asked in deliberately shocked dismay. "A rotten teacher? At Thornhart? The horror!"

Cutter laughed, picking up on his mocking tone. "Whatever, Davies. Don't tell me you buy into all that 'hallowed halls of academic prestige' nonsense. You and I both know that most students get in here not because of their smarts, but because of their parents' reputations or pocketbooks."

"Really?" Peter asked with an innocent grin.

"Sure. Anyway, back to Barnes. The man _is_ brilliant, of course; even I'll admit that. Mat's brilliant, too, by the way. You should know, because he can get a bit priggish about it. Just don't take it personal."

"You've known him long?"

"Ages. He's been a Thornhart student since he was ten, and I spend all my vacations with my uncle. I won't live sequestered in my room like a nun while here, so I've made some friends." She tossed her head somewhat defiantly, and Peter could tell that her association with the students must be a point of sore contention between her and her uncle.

The two of them watched Mat chase Jeff down the hallway, brandishing a wet paper towel he had swiped from a nearby bathroom. Jeff managed to grab the towel and proceeded to stuff it down Mat's collar, giggling and shouting.

"Sleek's smart too," Natalie said thoughtfully. "But, unlike Dickie, he hides it _very _well." She laughed. "And it doesn't seem like you have mush for brains, either. Not after your performance this morning, at least. You'll probably be another Barnes-lover."

Peter blushed. "Thanks, but I'm not following."

"Barnes is an excellent teacher – for those students he thinks worth his time and effort. Mat's one of those, and Sleek, too. But there aren't many others. And while Barnes will give someone like Mat or Sleek a bad grade if he thinks they wrote a lazy paper, he passes everyone else with easy A's, no matter what the quality of their work and without bothering to teach them anything."

"Why do you care?" Peter asked, somewhat surprised at the intensity of her voice.

"Well, my uncle – Dr. Clay – tells me far more than he should about this place. He actually almost fired Barnes last year, and has been rather sharp with him for months. He's something of an idealist concerning education, you see, and truly believes it has a transformative power. Barnes doesn't. When he and my uncle got into that argument, Barnes actually said something about society relying on garbage men just as much as it does senators, and how everyone should know their place."

"Ouch."

"Indeed. My uncle didn't like that, nor do I. But the students don't care as long as they get their A's, and Mom and Dad are tickled that little Johnny, who never showed any brilliance at school before, is suddenly coming home with top marks in World History. Not that there's anything wrong with not being genius. But Barnes can't compromise with anything less, and he doesn't offer anyone an opportunity to prove themselves through sheer guts and hard work."

"Oh," Peter said. Being no philosopher, he was starting to have some difficulty in following the conversation. And this Cutter girl talked like no one he had ever met before. The closest example he could think of was Will Stanton's more cryptic speeches. But at least one expected Will Stanton to be cryptic, so it wasn't quite as astonishing as it should have been.

They had reached the door that apparently led to the history classroom. Jeff and Mat were already inside and seated, but Cutter grasped Peter's sleeve and pulled him aside before entering, a troubled look on her face.

"Look," she whispered hurriedly, "I shouldn't have told you all that just now, I have the worst habit of speaking before I think. Don't listen to me, and please don't tell anyone what I said. My uncle wouldn't like it if he heard. Thornhart's a great place, and you really are lucky. But I don't quite belong here, you see, and I have certain rights as a consequence. And I think I told _you_ because I can see you don't quite belong here either."

Peter forced a laugh, her guilty expression making him feel bad. "Well, of course, I'm new. And I'm from England. We're all a bit batty over there." He grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

She shook her head glumly. "No, it's more than that. You just seem different, somehow, as if you didn't really care about this place at all. That's rare, let me tell you. Most new students are terrified their first week. Or maybe it's just that you don't carry that aura of absolute wealth that trails Mat and most of the others like a puppy dog. I don't know. And then there's the – the . . . "

"The eyes, of course. It's okay."

Peter wondered if he had ever said those words before.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to stare. But you surprised me so much this morning that I didn't notice then."

"Don't worry. But let's go inside."

"Sure."

Peter grabbed a desk in the row behind Mat and Jeff, next to a small red-haired boy who shot him a toothy smile, while Cutter continued on to what he assumed was her customary, unobtrusive seat in the back. Mat saw Peter sit down, smiled, and reached back to hand him a notepad and pencil. Peter mouthed a silent 'thanks' and, curious to see the teacher who inspired such love and loathing in his students, raised his eyes to study the man sitting behind the large mahogany desk at the front of the room.

Mr. Barnes was a short and slender, with somewhat delicate features. He was pale, with feathery blonde hair and slightly watery blue eyes. He wore a wrinkled tweed suit with a bow tie, and his expression was somewhat vacant as he absently gazed at his students, his eyes blinking as if a bright light shone upon him. He was the flawless image of the absent-minded professor.

"Good morning, everyone," he greeted them, standing up slowly. Peter jumped at the words. He had expected a voice that was thin and reedy, but the words came from those thin pale lips with a strength and force and richness that startled him. The man looked at him. "You must be Mr. Davies, I presume? The boy with the mathematical mind?"

The watery blue eyes gazed at Peter steadily, one eyebrow raised in knowing delicacy.

"Yes, sir," Peter replied, while the other students gave small whistles of appreciation.

Barnes smiled and didn't bother quelling the minor disruption. "Welcome, Peter. Please remain after class for a few minute so I can explain everything to you. Meanwhile, shall we just dive in? Jeff Kettering, I believe it's your turn today, no?" He glanced down at a piece of yellow paper in his hand. "And you're presenting . . . Djibouti?"

"Yeah," Jeff said, jumping up from his seat. Mr. Barnes took an armchair at the side of the room while Jeff strode up the aisle and took his place grinning behind the podium. He coughed to clear his throat. "For my report," he began with the utmost solemnity, "I chose the country of Dji-_bouti_."

Boys being boys, and Jeff's delivery perfect, the whole class snickered. Mr. Barnes nodded in appreciation and made notes on a clipboard placed on one knee. The red-haired boy next to Peter balled up a piece of paper and lobbed it at Jeff, who swatted it away effortlessly with one practiced hand.

"Now the Republic of Dji-_bouti_ became a state six years ago after an overwhelming vote favoring independence at a referendum resulted in its independence from France. Before 1967, Djibouti had been called the French Territory of the Afars and the Issas . . ."

Jeff spoke for the rest of the class, his report littered with jokes and innuendoes so that Peter and the rest were kept in constant laughter. But Peter saw that Cutter had been right; it was irreverent, but smart. Cheesy, but not vulgar. Much as Sleek tried to disguise it, he was truly interested in the little African country.

After class, while everyone was gathering their things together and beginning to verbally abuse the inadequate lunch that was surely awaiting them, Peter approached the mahogany desk at the front of the room. "You wanted to see me, Mr. Barnes?" "Ah, Peter. Let me put you off for just one second? Mat, I need to talk to you." "Uh huh?" Mat answered, coming up to stand next to Peter, his backpack slung over one shoulder. After everything Cutter had told him, Peter was surprised to see that his new friend appeared inordinately tense, his jaw grim despite the apparently casual words, as if he faced a firing squad. "If you'll stop by my office sometime tonight, I've read through your Puckett Competition essay. Excellent work, by the way, some of the best I've ever read. Student _or_ scholar. But I do have some suggestions before you send out a final draft." Mat sighed, his tight shoulders loosening and falling down. "Thanks, Mr. Barnes. I'll come by after dinner." He seemed to steel himself for his next words, and tension creeped back into his lanky frame. "And can I ask if . . . if you talked to Sir Nigel today?" Mr. Barnes looked at Mat with something that Peter thought might be pity. "Not today, Mat, I'm sorry. I know you're worried. But he was meeting with the Chinese ambassador when I called and couldn't get away." "Oh," Mat blurted out in a deathly voice. Peter began to feel uneasy. He had never seen such a woebegone look on anyone's face before. "Well, that's all right. I mean, I don't want to be ungrateful, you've done so much for us. . ." "It's nothing, Mat. Nothing. My pleasure. Maybe I'll have news for you later this week." Barnes reached out and clapped a sympathetic hand on the boy's shoulder. "Well, I'll see you later tonight, then. Bye, Peter." Mat gave him a stricken smile and was gone. Peter, consumed by sympathetic curiosity, watched Mat's drooping back exit the classroom. He was surprised to find that even within the short time he had known Mat, he had come to think of the other boy as invincible. He found this brief glimpse of sadness – whatever its cause may be – troubling. He turned to Mr. Barnes, expecting to find the teacher equally worried and concerned. But Barnes was sitting easily behind his desk, his hands folded before him, watching Peter with an alert, cheerful smile. 

"I'm sorry to keep you from your lunch, Peter," he said in that strangely resonant voice. "But I just wanted to bring you up to speed on the class."

"All right." Peter shifted his weight from one foot to another, beginning to think that maybe Cutter was right about this man. There was something behind the eyes that was . . . well, not quite there.

"Now, as you probably noticed, the assignment for winter term was to pick a country and to give an oral report upon significant events in its history. Since the other students were given two weeks to prepare, and since this is technically an extra-credit course, graded pass/fail, I hardly think it would be fair to require you to give one yourself."

"Thank you."

"Wait before you thank me. This is not an excuse for you to doze off in class, or to mysteriously absent yourself." Again that knowing smile that showed too many teeth. "You will be present every day, taking notes like everyone else. There will be a 100 question quiz at the end of term on which I expect you to do very well. You've missed two presentations, but you will just have to get the material from one of your classmates. Would you agree that's fair?"

"Fair enough."

"Good. One other thing you need to learn about Thornhart, however, is that there is a strict dress code. For example, watches and class rings are allowed, but no earrings or . . . conspicuously weird necklaces, for lack of a better term."

"Uh, ok." Peter was confused by the sudden change of topic, but kept his face blankly polite.

"You've missed my point, Peter." Barnes raised one finger and pointed at the collar of Peter's sweater. "What is that _thing_ around your neck?"

Horrified, Peter's hand flew up to feel that the leather strap from which his father's knife hung had bunched itself up so that it was showing over his sweater. He flushed and immediately jerked his hand away again. "Nothing," he stammered, ice running through his veins.

Unfortunately, it seems that all teachers have a talent for detecting cover-ups, and Mr. Barnes knew a guilty face when he saw one. He sighed with obvious resignation and held out one hand, palm up. "Hand it over, Peter, whatever it is."

"No."

"I think you'd better. Look, I'll be honest. Better me than someone like Mantey, or that new professor that came recently. Who knows what he would do, especially since new teachers are often a little . . . over-zealous in exerting their authority, shall we say?"

Barnes was mildly watching Peter's face, and Peter did not know why he found this so unnerving, so that panic was screaming dreadfully through his brain, until he realized that no one had ever looked that way at him before upon introduction, without any hint of surprise, embarrassment, or unease. There was nothing unusual in Barnes' gaze, and Peter thought that the man must be either a very good actor or . . .

. . . _or he expected you. Not just another new student. But _you.

The cut on his forehead throbbed hotly.

There was nothing for it. And although it sickened Peter, he could think of no other option short of running through the halls screaming bloody murder.

With shaking hands, he pulled the leather strap from around his neck, silently thankful that the more delicate silver chain from which the blue-green stone swung was still well-buried and invisible beneath his sweater. Unconsiously, he grasped the leather sheath so that the circle quartered by the cross was covered by one palm before pulling the Light's knife out and presenting it hilt first to Mr. Barnes.

"I'm sorry, sir," he was surprised to find his own voice saying plaintively, in an eager-to-please tone. He listened to his words as if from a curious distance. How many lies had he told in the past day? "But my grandfather died several weeks ago, and this was one of his most treasured possessions. He left it to me, you know. We were very close. And I – I – I can't bear taking it off or leaving it in my room. What if someone stole it? I bet it's very valuable."

Barnes took the hilt carefully and held the blade before him in two appreciative hands. "Well, well, well," he whistled. "And so it would appear to be. Your grandfather must have had excellent taste, for this was made exquisitely." He tested the tip of the blade with one thumb, and his eyes widened. "Quite sharp, too." He turned the thing over and over, studying it from all angles. "Still, Peter, this is not the sort of the thing that can be kept on school premises. It should remain with your parents until you're older. Understand?"

"Yes," Peter mumbled, immersing himself in his role and hanging his head in shame. He tried to ignore the feeling that he had just been slugged in the gut with a baseball bat. "I'll send it home right away, sir. Tomorrow, in fact. But can I keep it till then?" He even managed to call a few tears to the corners of his eyes and sniffle convincingly. "Please?"

"I have no desire to get my students in trouble, Peter." Barnes held the knife out in one flat hand, and Peter delicately reached out and retrieved it, careful not to touch him in any way.

"Now run along. I have papers to grade."

**II.**

Peter let the heavy door of the bathroom swing shut behind him with a bang. The bathroom, like bathrooms everywhere, was illuminated by a harsh fluorescent light. He leaned back against a tiled wall and yanked the leather strap from around his neck, pulling the dagger from its sheath. And yes, there is was on the tip, just as he had expected: a small red smudge, where the blade had drawn just the slightest drop of blood from Mr. Barnes' thumb.

Peter didn't know what to think. Should he save the evidence? But for who? The only person it would mean anything to was Will Stanton. _And_, he thought rather crossly, _Will shall just have to take my word for it_.

A toilet flushed, a much older student emerging. He straightened his tie and nodded at Peter, who swiftly hid the knife behind his back. The student pulled a crumpled packet of cigarettes from one pocket, flashed a warning smile, all teeth, in Peter's direction, and lit a smoke with a lighter.

Twenty seconds later, deprived of his lighter, the student found himself ignominiously hustled from the bathroom by the skinny new student, who was shouting something furious about fire hazards and second hand smoke. _Well!_ he thought haughtily as he walked away, rubbing the sore spot on his arm where the funny-eyed boy had grabbed him. _He shows up one teacher and all of a sudden thinks he can order anyone around! And what does he mean, staring at me like that? Weird. _Still, he kept on walking.

Once alone, Peter didn't hesitate in pursuing his hypothesis. He turned on a faucet and held the knife under gushing hot water, then carefully dried it with a paper towel. He produced the appropriated lighter and ran the blade through its flame several times with a scientist's precision, just to make sure. He had seen too many horror movies where blood could have a strange effect.

Breathing heavily now, he laid his left hand flat against the wall, palm facing out. He took a deep breath, tried not to think about the Stigmata or severed tendons, gritted his teeth, and drove the point of the blade into his flesh.

He gave a choking scream.

Will _had_ been right, that dark night in his father's jewelry shop so many lifetimes ago.

Peter stared at the skin of his palm, smooth and whole. Nothing had happened.

He had found the Dark.

**Reader Review Responses**

_GoldenRat_: Thanks so much for still reviewing!

_sarcastic rabbit_: I can't tell you how much I agree with your assessment of Bran. It's been my biggest frustration since I started writing : ). You see, I _did_ think about making him some great world leader, but I just couldn't bring myself to put smarmy political words in his mouth, and I guess I don't believe enough in noble politicians to make Bran one. So since I couldn't reconcile him with the real world, I took him out of it as much as I could. And if you keep writing great fics, I'll keep giving you great reviews! Also, I'm planning to read LyreD'enfers' and Gavin Gunhold's fics, but first I have to read the books they're based on : ). But I'm working on it!

_I-LOVE-VEGETA_: Much love : ) Hope to . . . uh, er . . . _read_ you around, I guess!


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